


Someone send a runner for the feeling that I lost today

by Sunnyrea



Series: Five Years Ago and Three Thousand Miles Away [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to breathe through his mouth  but in the back of his throat it feels like he's choking... when he closed his eyes for just a moment he so clearly heard Sherlock's voice saying his name, 'John.'<br/><i>When Sherlock's eyes slip closed he sees John instead. John sits across from him, his hands held up in the air calling for Sherlock, holding out a hand to pull him home.</i></p><p>[Prequel: The three years in between when Sherlock 'dies' and then comes back again.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a song by The National, [England](http://youtu.be/8Hl6GnmvMMA).

One week has passed since John saw his therapist and went to the cemetery with Mrs. Hudson; one week since John touched the cold marble of Sherlock’s grave and asked ‘don’t be dead.’

\---------

_One week has passed since Sherlock last saw John; one week since he left the cemetery alive and then left London._

\---------

John sits in his chair staring at the empty one across from him. The day’s newspaper lies in patches all over the floor, keeping to sections even as it fell. The style section soaks up John’s mug of tea as the mug itself lies in four pieces against the grate of the fireplace. John’s hands still hang in the air after both objects fell, shaking.

John tries to breathe through his mouth but in the back of his throat it feels like he’s choking. He breathes through his nose as slowly as he can, opens and closes his eyes, forces himself to see the empty chair because when he closed his eyes for a moment – just a second, just one indulgence – he heard Sherlock’s voice so clearly saying his name, ‘John…’

He can’t close his eyes, not anymore.

\----------

_Sherlock sits on the worn carpet of the sort of hotel where you pay cash up front but rooms are still private. The sheets scratch and the blankets are threadbare but at least the curtains close. Sherlock sits with his coat wrapped around him, knees bent up by his chest as he tries to think. A circle of papers lies on the floor in front of him, the basics he could pull in the time it took to set a starting path for himself._

_Now he needs a new line to move on, a fabric to form so he can find the first string to pull which will slowly turn that fabric into meaningless thread._

_Sherlock tries to think but his eyes float up to the blank wall of the room, old yellowing wall paper with an indefinable pattern. When Sherlock’s eyes slip closed he sees John instead. John sits across from him – close enough to touch – his hands held up in the air calling for Sherlock, holding out a hand to pull Sherlock home._

_Sherlock forces his eyes open, breathes through his nose as slowly as he can, and blinks the gritty hotel room into completely reality._

_He can’t close his eyes, not anymore._

\---------

“So that’s it then?” John puts his hands on his hips. “He’s still out there?”

Lestrade sighs. “John, he wasn’t real. He was just -”

“Oh, that is bullshit and you know it!”

Lestrade shakes his head and looks at the wall instead of John. John stays where he is, will not give ground.

“It has to be his fault!” John insists. “Moriarty is -”

“John, you have to let it go, it’s over now.” Lestrade speaks softly and it makes John want to hit him in the face. “Chasing after this Jim Moriarty is not going to bring Sherlock back.”

John shakes his head and paces across the room. “No, no, that’s not the point.”

“John, you’re grieving, we all are.”

“Oh? Are you?”

“Of course, I am!” Lestrade snaps and smacks his desk. “I...” He breathes in once and holds up a hand. “I wasn’t as close to Sherlock as you but I knew him five years longer and I know you know how he makes an impression on a person.”

John bites the edge of his lip and nods. “I know.”

“But listen to me, Jim Moriarty was not real.”

“Oh, he was. Yes, he was.”

Lestrade waves a hand. “Regardless John, what can we do? If anyone was going to catch Jim Moriarty for real, everything he was that Sherlock said he was, who else would catch him but Sherlock?”

“We could try!”

“Sir?” Sally pokes her head into the office. “We have –“ Then she suddenly notices John standing there and her jaw snaps closed tightly.

Lestrade clears his throat and John looks back to him. “John, go home; live your life and get over Sherlock.”

John stares at Lestrade. He remembers standing in this office so many times - Sherlock opening the envelope with the pink phone, Sherlock seated at Lestrade’s desk, Sherlock and Lestrade arguing over clues, Sherlock watching John for his reaction, Sherlock alive and brilliant and solving everything the blasted police could not. John shakes his head at Lestrade but he does not trust his voice. Instead he turns, pushes past Sally and storms away.

\--------

_“Molly?”_

_“Sherlock! Is it... is it safe for you to call?”_

_Sherlock stares out the window at the stars, remembers John beside him as they looked up together. “It is safe enough.”_

_“Your plan seems to have worked,” Molly says. “You should have seen the tabloids.”_

_“I did.”_

_“Oh... oh well. Well what, not that I don’t want to talk to you but, well, what do you need?”_

_“I...” Sherlock looks at the city below, the cars, the people, the strangers. “I wanted to know how... how is...”_

_“Sherlock, you know you could tell him that you’re -”_

_“I can’t.”_

_“Why not? Sherlock, how long do you need to be -”_

_“I have things to do, Molly. I need to keep him, all of you... I need to fix the whole world of Jim Moriarty.”_

_“Sherlock,” her voice cracks once, “how long will you be gone?”_

_“As long as I need to be.”_

\--------

“John?”

“Hi Sarah.” John nods quickly and stays standing in her office door. “Sorry to bother you in the middle of the day -”

“Oh, well that’s -”

“Your receptionist said - “

“No, no, come in,” she waves a hand at the chair on the other side of her desk. “Please, sit.”

John nods again and steps in, closing the door to just a crack open as he does. John sits, hands clasped in his lap. 

They stare at each other in silence for a moment until Sarah raises her eyebrows. “So?”

“Yeah, sorry, I...” He remembers a darkened theater, Chinese acrobats, Sherlock flying through the curtain and Sarah running to the rescue. “I’m looking for a new job and thought I’d start here to see if you’d heard of any good openings, been out of it for a while... uh, as you know.”

“Well, I could probably...” She clears her throat and searches his face. “John, I… I just wanted to say I’m sorry about -”

“I’m just here to see if you knew of any place, Sarah.”

“John,” she leans forward over her desk, “I know it’s been a while but if you need - “

John abruptly stands up. “Look, I’ll just check around myself.”

“John, wait.” Sarah stands up too. “I’ll come by, we can -”

John yanks open her office door. “Goodbye, Sarah.”

\----------

_“I would like to thank you again for your help.” The chief inspector shakes Sherlock’s hand. “You’re quite skilled for a private detective.”_

_Sherlock almost corrects him - consulting detective - but he presses his lips tighter together instead._

_“Durham doesn’t usually get such intricate cases as this,” the man continues with a half serious, half indulgent grin. “The new lads around here could learn a lot from you.”_

_Sherlock smiles thinly. “And the older one’s as well.”_

_The man’s smile twitches but he keeps it up remarkably well. He lets go of Sherlock’s hand and nods. “Yes, well, we would have never realized these string of crimes were connected without you.”_

_“Simply unraveling the web.”_

_The man chuckles and Sherlock does not even crack a smile. He peers over the inspector’s head as two of his PCs lead their criminal – just an outer layer, small ring of antique thefts, barely scratching the surface of Moriarty – away for a long stint behind bars._

_“Do be sure to round up his confederates,” Sherlock says, barely glancing at the man in front of him as he picks up his navy blue coat. “He had three others working with him after all. I assume you can narrow the list of ten names down properly on your own.”_

_The man snorts out a course laugh. “Oh, I think we know our jobs well enough for that.”_

_“Supposedly.” Sherlock pulls on the pea coat and turns away. “Good day.”_

_He walks out toward the double doors until the inspector shouts after him, “Oh, wait! Hamish!”_

_Sherlock pauses with his hand on the door handle and glances over his shoulder. “One of the local news boys wanted a story for the Sunday paper, would you -”_

_Sherlock abruptly turns away. “No.”_

\---------

John stares up at the ceiling of his room. He follows a crack from the corner to where it ends at the next wall, a sort of choppy circle. He focuses on breathing in and out and tries not to think. He knows he needs to sit up, stand up, put on clothing, go to work, live.

“Get up...” he whispers to himself but he does not move.

He cannot just lie here. He can’t stay in bed all day and turn into a hermit or a shut in but every day feels harder to move, harder to get out of bed because why bother? The rush is gone and the flat is empty. He’s waking up to go to the hospital, cure the sick, surely a profession worth something? He tries to tell himself that but then he remembers crouching over some body to tell Sherlock the time of death just before the man starts a speech about fabric type or polished rings.

“Get up,” John says out loud again.

He touches his face then presses his fingers against his lips, keeps himself breathing slowly in and out. Sometimes he wakes up with tear trails around his eyes and slightly damp spots in his hair as though he cried all night. Maybe he did. Maybe one morning he’ll wake up so dehydrated from all the tears there won’t be a question of forcing himself up because he won’t be able to. 

John breathes in again and stops all trains of thought like that, all insanity. “Get up.” 

He clenches his fists in the sheets, grits his teeth. He sees Sherlock sprawled all over the couch groaning about boredom, Sherlock running just ahead of him through a star lit alley, Sherlock smiling when John looks at him. John thinks about being able to touch Sherlock’s hand just one last time.

“Get up... get up, get up, get up.”

\--------

_Sherlock stares at himself in the mirror of the small airplane lavatory. The flight to Sweden will not be long, just over two hours. The pilot looked well rested, no obvious defects in the structure of the plane and the seat beside Sherlock remained pleasantly vacant. Yet as Sherlock stands locked away in an off smelling, claustrophobic closet of a ‘room’ his hands shake so hard he fears to properly open the door again._

_Sherlock breathes in slowly once then twice to try and calm whatever this physical response is. He has nothing to fear – fake passport accepted, flight in no danger – but perhaps that is wrong._

_He is finally leaving England after his zig-zag journey north leaving only former Moriarty clients locked up in his wake, one at the bottom of a particularly accepting river. There will be more people, more crimes to fix in England but the rest of Europe, of the world, is a web of Moriarty he must tackle now. He cannot remain at home any longer with his face so recognizable; it was a risk to stay in country as long as he did after his ‘suicide.’_

_“But I wanted...” Sherlock shakes his head, surprised at his own voice bringing forth his thoughts._

_He still wanted to be near John._

_Sherlock’s whole body shudders and his hands spasm. He breathes, clenches his fists, leans back against the wall and becomes suddenly so very self-aware. Sherlock bites his lip and keeps his shaking hands clenched up tight._

_Oh, he is afraid after all. What if he never sees John again?_

\----------

John starts to search for a new flat. He has a job now but living in the middle of the London isn’t cheap. The flat is really meant for two what with two bedrooms, both of which are large to begin with. Not to mention the bedroom adjacent to the kitchen is no longer in use.

John looks at Camberwell, Forest Hill, Penge, Croydon, Herne Hill; scrolls through findaproperty and gumtree.com. He sees ads for flat shares, ‘looking for one roommate, modest rent, furnished,’ but wants to smash his laptop, throw it against the wall. He tries to be practical, think of the money and the sense of having his own place at least. Yet if he even pulls one of his suitcases out of the closet he instantly wants to throw it out the window. Every click of a new property feels like a betrayal, like he’d be leaving Sherlock behind forever. 

Harry says, “But It’s better to move on, right? Not be surrounded by all the memories?”

Maybe he does not want to move on. John knows these walls, these floors, the fixtures in the kitchen, each piece of this ridiculous flat glues him to the spot and to the memory he will not let go of. He tears up ads he’d clipped out of the paper, nearly does smash his laptop and grips the arms of his chair so tightly his fingers go white. 

He ends up down in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, mug of tea in his hands, and she cuts his rent by half.

“Can’t have you leaving yet, deary,” she says with a smile and a hand over his.

\--------

_At certain points Sherlock feels twenty years old again having to fight through three beat cops until he finds the fourth which believes him enough to send him on to a detective who may actually look at the case he can solve and finally make headway._

_“I am trying to tell you that this is not some simple suicide. If you look at the evidence -”_

_“Mein gott, How did you gain access to this?”_

_Sherlock has no reputation to pull from, no professional history to use as proof and no relationship with any police force. He cannot use his name to show that, obviously, he knows what he says. Every time, every case, is a fight to get past the thick skulls of police bureaucracy and procedure._

_“You cannot have this.” The detective stands up behind her desk. “It is classified and you -”_

_“ - can solve this case for real instead of shelving it due to careless stupidity!”_

_“Raus aus!” She points sharply at the door behind him._

_Sherlock stands up straight, holding one photo from the case file in his hand. “The angle is far too acute for suicide, no one would hold their hand that way, and there are obviously fingernail marks on the temple. It is clear. Es ist mord.”_

_The detective stares at him a moment then gazes at the photo. She leans over her desk, nose closer to the photo until finally her eyes tick up to look at Sherlock. “Murder?”_

_Sherlock feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips and he thinks, ‘there, John, another step forward.’ Sherlock nods at her, “Murder.”_

\---------

When John had nightmares before they featured Afghanistan - blood, bullets, shouting, screaming, helicopters, more blood, explosions, sand, always that war which left scars but gave him purpose. His nightmares are different now.

“Okay, look up, I’m on the rooftop.”

“Oh god...”

Sun… it was sunny and clear that day, pavement instead of sand. Barts wasn’t the sort of building you looked at for any longer than a few seconds, except this time. In his dreams now the sun shines so brightly behind Sherlock up on the roof, like it might burn him away before...

“What’s going on?”

“An apology...”

The other buildings blur out leaving Barts alone, the only distinct memory in a sea of metropolitan gray. John dreams no other people, just the two of them - just sun and Barts and two mobiles connecting through visible space.

“I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, in fact tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up.”

It’s strange how dreams - nightmares - can bring back conversations which were so confused and blurred and very, very important with complete clarity. It is only a dream, only a memory remade into something more or less real, but it cuts harder every time. Even when in the dream Sherlock appears only as a shape on a rooftop, bled into black by the over bright sun, the words remain as sharp as brand new knives.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me, please, will you do this for me?”

John never moves, never tries to go into the building or run up the stairs or pull Sherlock back from the edge. It is a dream so why can’t he do something this time? Why? Why!

“Goodbye, John.”

“No... don’t...”

And Sherlock always falls. He always, always, always falls. He falls in a moment or in real time or until John snaps away so Sherlock won’t land... won’t hit, won’t die again and again.

John wakes without shouting or screaming, not drenched in sweat or shaking. Instead he holds onto his sheets, tears at the corners of his eyes and he wishes to go back, wishes to dream again because maybe this time Sherlock won’t fall. Maybe this time John can stay in the dream and they both will live again.

\---------

_Anonymity remains vital to Sherlock’s mission. Since ‘Sherlock Holmes’ is dead he must become different people every step of the way. He’s used disguises in the past, pulled out a smile or some tears to gain information from unknowing suspects and witnesses. Now disguise envelops every day of his life because there is no Sherlock Holmes._

_Sherlock cuts his hair short above his ears, not too short though so he still has some curls. He dyes it a bright, vibrant red – a shade good enough to be assumed natural. Ginger hair is useful because then it’s all a person remembers after meeting, the face disappears. Half the time he dresses like some university kid who took a year off to backpack through Europe then forgot to come home. He wears worn jackets, faded jeans, sneakers close to the point of chucking in the bin. However, he also keeps one good suit and a fine leather briefcase to play the part of private detective. He has two sets of false glasses, three bland boring ties of ‘office’ variety, and two pairs of good, shined shoes. Then in contrast he has club wear, tight pants and tighter shirts, outfits to draw attention just when he wants to snap the trap shut. He even has his generic police uniform that could apply to a number of countries._

_The more costumes he keeps the more Sherlock feels in control, more structured, more able to have an end in sight._

_Despite all the disguises weighing him down, at the bottom of his duffle – never worn but still kept, he always brings that long, dark gray coat._

\---------

John visits Sherlock’s grave once a week, at the very least. Sometimes he brings flowers but not every time. He imagines Sherlock would have found the gesture ridiculous but John remains self-aware enough to know that the gesture is more for him than for Sherlock. He always visits alone usually for fifteen or twenty minutes but sometimes he stays for an hour or more.

John sits on Sherlock’s grave, arm stretched out to full length so the tips of his fingers touch the stone. He slowly traces Sherlock’s name up and down, the stone only slightly less shiny now.

“We met for the first time two years ago, Sherlock.” John chuckles. “To think it was Mike that brought us together. I’m surprised he’s someone you even spoke to more than once.” John drops his arm. “But who knows who you talked to before I came along, right?”

John sighs and lets his head fall forward, hunching himself over against the cold and against the memories.

“That first time in the cab when you explained everything you knew about me, about my sister.” John smiles at the memory, at the thought of Sherlock warm beside him and not cold beneath him. “You were perfect in an instant, everything I needed in my life right then, perfect even when you were a complete ass.” John shakes his head against the stone. “Such an ass but... but still perfect.”

John shoves himself up onto his knees and grabs the edges of the grave. “Didn’t you understand how I… Didn’t you? How couldn’t you?” John swallows hard. “Why.. why would you...” He breathes in sharply and shifts back onto his heels. “Didn’t you know how much I cared about you? Didn’t that matter?”

John’s heels start to ache and he awkwardly falls back to sitting on the ground again. He fists his fingers in the grass, pulling out blades and grinding dirt under his nails.

“Sometimes you were such an idiot, such a damned, bloody idiot.” John stares at the stone trying to see the man it represents. “How could you be such a genius and be such a stupid man?”

John scoots himself forward over the grass and leans his shoulder against the stone. “I just... I just want...” John sighs, tries to make himself solid, whole, tells himself to stand up, go home. John whispers. “I just want you back.”

John wakes up in the morning with his face pillowed on one arm and Mycroft crouching down beside him.

“John?”

John has to blink four times until the resemblance Mycroft bears to his brother properly fades away.

“Oh, John.” Mycroft touches his face. “You’re freezing. We should get you to a hospital.”

“No...” John murmurs.

“You’ve been here all night! You are a doctor, John, really you should know better; you could have hypothermia!” Mycroft insists, pulling John up to his knees and putting his own coat around John’s shoulders. “Please, get up.”

John blinks, trying to really think but his head is two years ago in the lab with his mobile held out in his hand, standing beside Sherlock, watching as he swirls out the door.

“John, get up!” Mycroft pulls and John rises to his feet. “You are coming with me, now, and we are taking you to hospital.”

“We met two years ago,” John says with a dark laugh, “do you remember, Mycroft? You kidnapped me with your car.”

“I did not kidnap you.”

“Close enough.”

Mycroft sighs, putting one arm around John’s shoulders and forcing him to walk forward. “If Sherlock could see you...”

John gasps. “He can’t.”

“Well, I can, John, and perhaps this time I will have to kidnap you for your own good.”

John chuckles, feeling weaker the further they walk until he starts to lean part of his weight on Mycroft.

“Why would he leave us?” John whispers.

Mycroft brushes his hand across the back of John’s hair once but he does not respond.

\---------

_Sherlock runs down an alley, torch held out in front of him though he only barely needs it. His suspect runs ahead of him, losing ground as he tires. Sherlock will catch him in less than a minute, just before they hit the main road. The man – Mario Arroyo – swerves around a stack of rotting wooden boxes, knocking them down behind him so Sherlock has to leap on instinct and hope he makes it. Sherlock hits the ground again on both feet, only losing a few seconds._

_‘One more, John, one more.’_

_Ten more seconds and Sherlock grabs the back of the Mario’s coat then hits him in the head with his torch. Mario yelps and stumbles which allows Sherlock to hook an ankle around Mario’s and bring the man crashing to the ground._

_Sherlock kneels down beside him, pinning him with one arm and pulling Mario’s gun out of his pants. “I’ll have that.”_

_“¡Suéltame!”_

_“Get off? I don’t think so,” Sherlock replies. “You killed your wife, Senor.”_

_He shakes his head. “No, I did not, she -”_

_“Oh, yes, an accident?”_

_“Si!”_

_Sherlock laughs. “Rather convenient accident and quite a lot money passing to you, wasn’t it?”_

_The man breathes through his nose and frowns. “It was not me.”_

_“Chemical in her bloodstream? The hem of her dress? Not to mention the marks on her forehead?”_

_Mario’s breathing increases and he tries to jerk up but Sherlock shoves him back into pavement. He shakes his head. “I.. I did not... it was... I had... it was not my plan!”_

_“It was most certainly you who carried it out but you are correct, you had help with the finer details.”_

_Mario’s eyes widen because despite the slower wits he realizes what Sherlock knows and he swallows hard. “Is he... will he come for me?”_

_Sherlock smiles very slowly, “Not if you help me first. Now, who was your contact to Moriarty?” The man stiffens at the name. “I know you never saw him personally, you are certainly too small a piece on the chessboard for that. So, who did you speak to?”_

_“I... I cannot...”_

_“Yes, you can.” Sherlock thinks of John beside him, holding the gun with a smile, the rush of the chase. Sherlock tilts his head to the side slowly. “You will.”_

_“I... no, I...”_

_Sherlock cocks Mario’s gun, points it at the stone wall beside them and fires off a shot. The man starts at the loud noise and stares in shock. His eyes tick up toward the main street several meters away, maybe hoping the noise would attract passersby._

_“In this area of Buenos Aires, Mario? I think not. You are quite alone.” Sherlock cocks the gun again and slides it away from the wall to point at Mario’s neck. “Who was your contact?”_

\--------

John and Greg sit side by side at the bar, matching pints in front of them. Three TVs behind the bar broadcast the football match for the night. Greg seems to care about one of the teams but John watches only in a detached sense.

“So, how are you?” Greg asks.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

Greg shrugs. “All right.”

“How is Scotland Yard?”

Greg chuckles. “Maybe we solve a few less cases but no shortage of bad guys.”

“Yeah, think not.”

They both pick up their pints at the same time and take sips of their beer. Up on the screen three players fall into some sort of kick gone wrong type of fight and the referees have to jump in to tear the players apart. Greg waves a hand at the screen and grunts with annoyance. One of the players shoves a referee and is kicked out of the game.

“Oy, no!” Greg shouts, echoed by various other people in the pub.

John raises his eyebrow but just takes another drink of his beer, knocking the rest back and sliding the empty glass toward the inside edge of the bar. Greg watches the game a bit longer until one team barely misses a goal. Then he turns back to John.

“So, really then?”

John looks out of the corner of his eye. “What?”

Greg taps his glass on the bar. “Come on, John.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Greg shakes his head. “You were in hospital not long ago because –”

“All right!” John shakes his head and holds up a hand to get another beer. “How do you even know about that?”

“I am a cop.”

John just sighs.

“John, I just think perhaps...”

John turns and looks straight at Greg. “What?”

Greg does not look away. “I think it’s time to move on.” John opens his mouth but Greg holds up his hand. “Aye, no, I mean it. I think you’re holding on so tightly because you think if you try to move on it’s betraying him or something the like, right?”

John’s lips twitch but he does not respond.

“Well, it’s not.” Greg raises both eyebrows and drinks the rest of his beer. “So, maybe you should give ‘moving on’ a chance, all right?”

John turns away. “It’s not as easy as all that.”

“Not if you don’t let it be.”

John frowns. “Shut up, Lestrade.”

“Only when you listen, Watson.”

\-------

_Sherlock knows what his purpose is; he knows the state of his mission, how far he’s gone and what is left to do. Maybe he doesn’t have the specifics, how many people he needs to arrest or at least take care of but he sees the path. Sherlock finds crimes, fixes police errors, cuts down the little people to have them lead him to the middle men left who saw Moriarty’s face - who may even know who Sherlock is._

_The point though, the point he does not know, the point of ‘home’ is only a fog on the horizon. When can he go home? Sherlock never used to have such a strong sense of ‘home’ before, not before John._

_Sherlock e-mails Molly, the only person he can use as an anchor to the life he wishes to return to._

_To: Molly Hooper  
Subject: SH_

_Update?_

_-SH_

_He sends one word, maybe one sentence e-mails. He sits in his hotel rooms, computer at his hip, looking down at research but really thinking of nothing but Molly’s response. If she takes more than an hour he becomes restless, fingers twitching and glancing down at his phone or his laptop every ten seconds._

_To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Same_

_I haven’t seen John very much myself. I heard he was in the hospital a month or so ago. He still misses you. Can’t you come back now?_

_< 3 Molly_

_Sherlock saves every e-mail. Molly used to ask how he was, where he was, but when he never answered she began to give up. Instead every e-mail ends with a variation of ‘can’t you come back.’_

_“Oh, Molly.” Sherlock archives the e-mail. “I will. I have to.”_

_To: Molly Hooper  
Subject:_

_Soon._

_-SH_

\--------

When he sits and lets his mind wander down dangerous paths, John thinks about what he last said to Sherlock in person in the lab, "friends protect people." 

Should he have protected Sherlock more? Protected him from himself? Or in his own, overly logical, way was Sherlock trying to protect him? Jim disappeared, Sherlock died, and John was left behind. Was all of that Sherlock’s way of, what, saving John? Saving John from Sherlock?

John wishes Sherlock were still here so he could tell the man how wrong he was.

\---------

_Due to this Moriarty mission, Sherlock rarely stays in one place long. He plants for a week, a week in a half, maybe only two days. Sometimes the place he lands coincides with a crime to expose and fix while other times the place is only a way station, a room to wait out a few days while he figures out where to move next._

_Sherlock hangs a map of the world on the wall every place he stays. He pins photographs, police reports, news articles, his own scraps of notes to all the relevant places. He keeps notebooks and folders on separate countries where dear Jim spent more time. His research fills up countless folders on his laptop. Every time he finishes with one location five more seem likely candidates._

_Sometimes he just wants to shout, ‘stop it, enough,’ to shake Jim and tell him to, ‘please, let it go, you’ve done enough.’ But Jim is just as dead as Sherlock pretended to be. Sherlock has no way to express his frustration, nothing to do but keep moving forward._

_“But not forever.” Sherlock paces back and forth in front of the map tacked onto the wall. “There has to be an end. He was only a man. He cannot have strings stretching to infinity.” Sherlock looks at the empty chair by the window, wishes a person – one person – sat there to listen, to give feedback. He frowns and flips open a notebook. “At least Antarctica should be empty.”_

_He rereads every bit of research – cases complete, hints which might mean nothing, obvious facts, clues wrung from witnesses – the fabric seems to imply there is someone, someone right below Jim who is the last pillar to knock out but the layers are still deep. Sherlock knows it only means time, only time until he lays everything out and connects every meaningless consulted crime._

_But when he can’t read the same page again, can’t straighten the last piece out, he pulls one small piece of paper from his wallet. It is a photograph of a man. The man smiles in the unguarded way people do when truly pleased but they believe no one sees. His eyes look right at the camera, that one second chance before he realizes he is being watched._

_Sherlock stares at the image, imagines John can see him through the photo as their eyes meet. He looks and looks and looks and remembers the point of this entire path he follows._

\---------

March 31st usually means a few presents or a trip to the pub with his mates, maybe even a visit from Harry. John’s birthday this year is no exception, in fact some of his old army mates, as well as Paige and Brandon from uni, plan a party at the pub, invite his sister and even some of the Scotland Yard crew. They rent out the place for the night and pull together to buy him a new laptop.

“Need one for something other than your blogging, yea?” Mike says.

John smiles, thanks them for the generous gift, and does three rounds as they all sing Happy Birthday about five times over, decreasing the quality of singing each time but certainly not the enthusiasm.

“To John!” Greg says, holding up his glass. “Best birthday bloke in London.”

Everyone laughs and clinks glasses, splashing beer onto the floor not just once.

John just shakes his head at the inspector. “Very creative.”

He only chuckles and chugs down the last of pint. “Well, we all can’t be as creative as Sherlock was, right?” He laughs again. “You can make the toast to yourself next time.”

John smiles back but his chest feels tight and five minutes later he sits in the back corner of the pub well away from the festivities, head in his hands. He stares at the floor and feels tears slowly leak down his face. He knows this needs to stop somehow but out of nowhere the littlest things seems to throw him back months. Just mention Sherlock’s name with a smile and John feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, like someone shot him in the head.

“Why...” John whispers to the wood floor.

“John?”

John tilts his head slightly at the voice and then Molly crouches down into his view.

“John, why are you...” She trails off then touches his wrist. “Do you.... I mean, if you want to talk about...” She sighs and lets go of his wrist.

John shakes his head. “Molly, I don’t...”

Molly holds out a napkin for him. “Want dry off your face at least? Though it’s your party and you can cry if you want to?”

John chuckles despite himself and takes the napkin from her. “Right, yeah.” He finally looks up at Molly, red dress and her hair down. “You look nice.”

She smiles a little. “Thank you.” She stands half way then sits on the chair against the wall beside him. “So?”

John wipes his cheeks quickly then crumples the napkin in his hand. He breathes in once and knocks his head back against the wall. “Greg... Lestrade, he...” John chuckles. “He just mentioned Sherlock, just in passing but I...”

“Just hearing his name can hurt,” Molly finishes.

John looks at her and presses his lips together tightly. He shakes his head. “You think you’re fine and then.” He makes a motion like punching in the air. He laughs but the sound comes out choked and weak.

Molly shifts in her chair to really face him. She opens her mouth but then closes it again before saying anything. She clasps her hands together then lets go and lays them flat on her legs.

“I think...” she begins, “I think what he did.” John clenches his teeth and his throat tightens. Molly reaches out and takes his hand. “I think he did it to protect you.”

John laughs harshly, bitingly, and pulls his hand away from her. “Really? You think he -” John gasps and puts a fist up to his mouth. “No, if he was...”

“John...”

“If that is what he was doing,” John points at Molly, “then he was wrong!”

“If you could ask him -”

“Ask him?” John laughs again. “It’s all well and good to imagine ‘what ifs,’ Molly, but we can’t have any of those ‘what ifs,’ now can we?”

Molly watches him, face still calm, though she bites her lip. “What would you say to him if you could?”

John groans and shakes his head hard. “What does it matter?”

“Because it matters!”

John stares at her for a moment then looks away and lays his head back against the wall.

“I’d tell him...” John shakes his head slowly and remembers his therapist insisting in her quiet, well taught way that he say all the ‘unsaid’ things – her professional interest maddening in its impersonal, cold view. Molly however only waits with the same sad expression he feels. “I suppose I’d... tell – I’d tell him that I... I’d tell him how I felt... about him.” John clears his throat carefully. “He was the best man I ever knew.”

He won’t say ‘love,’ can’t say it, but when he looks up at Molly again he knows that she hears it anyway.

\---------

_“Qui est-ce?”_

_Sherlock glances up slowly from the dark wood of the bar to the woman standing behind it – short brown hair, low cut purple tank top, worn, at least a year old, close cut nails – due to cooking most likely, formerly pierced eyebrow, leather belt, third hour of her shift. He raises his eyebrows slowly in reply._

_“Who is it?” She repeats and points to his phone resting on the bar top._

_Sherlock’s eyes tick to his phone – black droid this time. He frowns and glances back at her._

_“You sit here for two hours and stare.” She flips her hand palm up - very Italian gesture, probably her mother’s side. “You only move to look to your mobile.”_

_He cocks his head, quick glance to the clock to confirm and he makes a ‘hmm’ noise._

_“So, who is it?” She asks a third time and leans over slightly, elbows just propped up on the edge of the bar. “Who is it you do not call?”_

_“Perhaps I am waiting for someone to call me?” Sherlock replies, stalls._

_Her mouth quirks. “You never worked at a bar, have you?” She stands up straight again and pulls out her own mobile. “If I am waiting for a call when I look at my phone I click it on.” She does so, turning the screen out toward him showing the background of raindrops and the time of 11:14. “I think, ‘perhaps I missed the beep? Perhaps I did not feel it vibrate?’ I do not just stare.”_

_“Astute.” Sherlock sits up straighter on the stool and folds his hands around the drink in front of him, finger tips just touching at the other side, barely cold anymore with the ice melted. “Who is it then?”_

_She clicks her phone screen off and slips it back into her pocket. She rubs both her thumbs and forefingers together in the air then points one forefinger at his face. “A girl.”_

_Sherlock sighs and picks up his glass a fraction so it taps back onto the bar top, dropping off beads of sweat onto the coaster._

_She only smiles. “Ah, so a boy instead.”_

_‘Not a boy,’ Sherlock thinks, ‘a man, one man.’ Instead he says with an edge of malevolence, “why not something else? Work? Family?”_

_She snorts. “You sit for two hours with one melting drink over work? I think not.”_

_“Obviously.”_

_“You do not expect him to call you.” She twirls one hand in the air. “So, you hurt him or he cares nothing for you?” She tips her head to the side. “Which?”_

_Sherlock looks down at his phone, presses each number in his head and hears the rings, hears John’s voice, imagines falling into a cushion of sound and intonation and memory as John says his name, ‘Sherlock…’_

_“Why don’t you call him?”_

_Sherlock blinks back into the bar and turns to her. He frowns. “Why have you been asking me all of this? Do you expect an increase in tip?”_

_“Not from a man who does not even drink his one drink.”_

_Sherlock purses his lips but says nothing. She leans over again and leans across the bar slightly, scrutinizing his face. She purses her lips back at him in an almost child-like mockery. Sherlock’s lips change into a frown then she hops back and stands up._

_“Is it something special? Party you are missing? Not invited to? Break up?”_

_Sherlock grumbles loudly and drinks a swig of his watered down whiskey and soda. She chuckles and nods as he puts the glass down._

_“In the right area now, yes?”_

_“Today is his birthday,” Sherlock abruptly admits without meaning to._

_Her mouth forms into an ‘o’ shape and Sherlock turns his head away, eyes drawn back to the silent phone._

_“Then why not call, say ‘happy birthday,’ it could open a door?”_

_“I can’t.”_

_She scoffs. “Oh, why not? What is so big?”_

_“He believes I’m dead.”_

_For the first time in her fluffy, all knowing bar tender act of a conversation her eyebrows fly up and the only expression on her face is surprise. Sherlock downs the rest of the drink in one gulp._

\---------

When John leaves his house in the morning to go to work, Mycroft stands just off his front stoop waiting for him. John stops in the doorway but Mycroft only stares back at him.

“I take it you don’t want to come in?” John asks dryly.

“No, I have a key if I’d wished to do that.”

John frowns. “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Hudson about changing the locks.”

Mycroft smiles. “If that makes you feel better.”

John steps out of the doorway and pulls the door shut behind him. He steps off the stoop and stops in front of Mycroft. Mycroft stares down at him until John finally sighs and gives in.

“Right, so, what do you want, Mycroft?”

“I came to see how you were doing.”

“How I was doing?” John deadpans.

“Well, after our last little adventure together I thought -”

“Yeah, I got it.” John puts up his hands once then drops them. “Well, I’m fine.”

“Fine is a word so often used when one is not really in fact fine.”

John groans. “Really, Mycroft, don’t you have better things to be doing? Arresting little old ladies as terrorists?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow and John gestures down the street. “I do have work to get to.”

“I am aware of that, John, but I am also aware that it has been nearly a year since Sherlock... well, since he’s been gone and I know how anniversaries tend to bring out dramatic emotions.”

John grinds his teeth and tilts his head to the side. “Is this your ‘worrying constantly?’ I’m not your brother.”

“Well, practically you were, wouldn’t you say? And it seems with Sherlock away my concern has shifted to you.”

“Fancy that,” John says icily.

“I am merely concerned for you, John, nothing more. These things do take time.”

John puts his hands on his hips. “Mycroft, if you want to help me why don’t you just let me go to work and live my life instead of checking up on me like a blasted reminder!”

Mycroft clicks his teeth and twirls the umbrella in his hand around once. “I see.”

“I...” John groans again and sighs. “I’m sorry, I.... I appreciate that you are concerned but I don’t need to be checked up on, all right?”

Mycroft nods. “Fine, but consider I am only trying to do what my brother would want.”

John laughs once. “Really, what’s that? Stalk me? Mother hen me?”

“Ensure you keep on living.” John’s face falls and he stares at Mycroft. Mycroft tilts his head and smiles. “And make sure you are happy.”

John stares and he has to swallow twice before speaking. “Why? To make up for what you did?”

Mycroft face shifts ever so slightly and he looks away. “Perhaps.”

\---------

_Sherlock sits across the table in the interview room from Andrew Brent whom Sherlock has just proven had a hand in five crimes stealing quite expensive art from galleries around New York City._

_“You are not entirely incompetent, Mr. Brent,” Sherlock says, “You were able to pull off these crimes but how much the ideas were yours and how much were our shared associate’s is the real question? I imagine far more his than yours.”_

_Andrew nods with a smile. “Mr. Moriarty, you mean?”_

_Sherlock raises his eyebrows but his lips twitch to almost mirror the other man’s expression. “Helped you a great deal, didn’t he? You were small time before this and he raised you up.”_

_“I had hoped he could help more,” Andrew shrugs, “it was a mutually beneficial arrangement.”_

_“You believe he enjoyed his portion of the proceeds?”_

_Andrew purses his lips. “I don’t think that was his favorite part of it, actually.”_

_“No,” Sherlock leans forward slightly, “neither do I, which is why I know how far his web really spreads.”_

_“Do you?”_

_“Did you ever actually meet Jim Moriarty in person?”_

_Andrew frowns. “Why are you interrogating me about this? He’s dead, right?”_

_“Is he? Is all of him dead?”_

_Andrew gives Sherlock a strange look then puts his cuffed hands up on the table. “What do you want? My contact? How do you know I didn’t always talk straight to Moriarty?”_

_“You?” Sherlock sneers. “Please. Worn shoes, department store suit, not the same level of class. And there is your hearing, a touch off in one ear by the way you tilt your head so not even the one with polished skills to crack safes. And of course chips in your nail not from constant menial labor such as construction or the like but more like climbing on the outside of buildings or down in tunnels, only happens sometimes but more than once or twice - the leg man of operations. Leg men, Mr. Brent, do not meet the top of the food chain.” Sherlock holds up a finger. “So, who was your contact?”_

_Andrew swallows and shakes his head. “No way, he’d kill me just as quickly as Mr. M would have.”_

_Sherlock tilts his head. “Isn’t that all the more reason for me to find those who were closest to the top? Then you can have a nice, peaceful time in jail instead of fearing assassination behind those bars.”_

_“What could you do?”_

_“Obviously, I could catch him.”_

_Andrew stares then very slowly he begins to smile. Sherlock frowns – new posture, tension leaving hands, smile more like a smirk – Andrew knows something._

_“Well, Mr. Jones,” Andrew says, “I think we’re done here. I have nothing more to say to you.”_

_“And why is that?”_

_“Because I know who you really are.” Sherlock stays perfectly still - give nothing away - and stares back. Andrew leans forward over the table so his lips are as close to Sherlock’s ear as possible in his restraints. Then he whispers, “You are Sherlock Holmes.”_

_\---------_

John sits at the table next to the windows in his flat. His laptop sits open in front of him. He has his blog up on the screen, the last entry from almost a year ago at the top. John sighs and lets his eyes coast around the room. Not much has changed in the flat, bit cleaner perhaps and he did get rid of the cow skull which hung on the wall. 

“One big difference though,” John says out loud but then shakes his head at himself.

He closes his eyes and remembers Sherlock lying on the couch, “There is nothing out there worth moving for.”

“Crime isn’t the only thing in life, Sherlock.”

“It is the only interesting thing.”

John smiles to himself. It took twenty minutes and then three games of Cludeo just to get Sherlock off the couch and go outside for the first time in a week. John opens his eyes again to see the empty couch. He hardly sits on it any more, just his chair and the table. If he had people over maybe they’d sit there; if he ever had anyone over.

John sighs and looks back to this computer. He sees his own words, sees Sherlock’s name in the type. If he scrolls down he will see every case, their life together, himself and Sherlock - the blogger and the detective. Only John knows what every day together was really like, Sherlock always beside him - experiments in the kitchen, violin at six AM, blog entries about geographical location evidenced by sunburn, Sherlock asleep with his head in John’s lap because neither could be bothered to move. John breathes in and has to look away.

“Isn’t it ever going to stop...” John whispers to himself.

Then he grits his teeth and logs into the back end of the blog site. He pulls up a new entry and types out one sentence. He doesn’t even pause to consider. John hits enter and publishes.

_‘He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him.’_

John stares at the words and whispers again as if Sherlock could hear him somehow. “I miss you so much.”

\---------

_Sherlock turns the doorknob after the last click of his lock pick and steps into the flat. He pauses for a moment just in case though he is 98% certain no one waits inside. Sherlock takes two steps inside and closes the door behind him. He walks swiftly across the room and peers out the windows at the Piazza del Campo. Clusters of people sit on the half-moon shaped piazza while a crowd of tourists walk back and forth snapping photos of the Torre del Mangia. Though it is June now with the sun beating down, the small, square fountain at the apex of the piazza is not on and most of the residents hide beneath restaurant awnings for some cool instead._

_“Siena.” Sherlock humphs. “And you always seemed like such a big city boy, Jim.”_

_Sherlock pivots and regards the room – antique furnishings, red chaise lounge with gold edging obviously stolen, mahogany table purchased, red curtains, table at the wall frequently moved for computer cords, matching wardrobe against the far wall with obvious use of the key lock – Jim used this apartment often. Sherlock steps away from the windows and walks slowly around the flat, just three and a half rooms – bedroom with attached bath, large lounge, and kitchen._

_“Why did you like this one so much, eh, Jim?”_

_Sherlock follows the worn portions of the carpet, traces Jim’s steps as he moved in this space. The well-trod paths always lead to the windows._

_“Liked to watch the world below?” Sherlock pulls back one curtain in the bedroom – four post bed, sheets unmade, slept with someone else? “Or did you spy on those across from you?”_

_Sherlock can see into at least three other flats or business from this window, likely a few more from the main room. However, Siena is hardly a city robust enough to fuel a desire for fascinating crime or mayhem. Sherlock purses his lips and looks at the bedroom. He opens the closets and finds two suits hanging up as well as a dark brown, leather jacket, slightly worn edges. The jacket clearly does not belong to Jim._

_“Hmm.” Sherlock turns around again and stares at the room. “Was this just one of your stopping points?”_

_Sherlock wonders if he looks in the kitchen will he find a set of carving knives meant for activities other than food preparation?_

_Sherlock walks out of the bedroom and crosses the lounge to the wardrobe against the wall. He pulls the handle and finds it surprisingly unlocked. A few papers and a folder remain, pushed to the edges as though they were once more organized. Sherlock frowns and grinds his teeth once._

_“Someone was here before me.”_

_Sherlock picks up the papers, two blank and one which turns out to be a flight itinerary. He scrutinizes the flight itinerary, looks at the date - two days ago - and clenches his fist around the corner._

_Sherlock smirks. “Moved too quickly.”_

_He picks up the folder and opens it. Inside he finds a photograph; it is a black and white photograph, clearly from some security camera, of himself with just the shoulder and back of the head of someone else standing beside him. In the photograph his face is in profile as he looks down at the shorter man beside him. The expression on his face appears tranquil, as though in that moment Sherlock would not have rather been anywhere else. Sherlock’s mouth twitches and he closes the folder around the photograph._

_“You can’t run forever.” He turns and walks to the door. “I will find you.”_

_He has to._

\---------

It’s been one year to the day since Sherlock died. 

John doesn't answer when Lestrade calls, doesn't answer when Harry calls, ignores Mycroft’s text. He locks the doors against Mrs. Hudson and drinks an entire bottle of Makers Mark while the clip to his gun sits underwater in the toilet.

\---------

_It’s been one year to the day since Sherlock died._

_Sherlock sits alone in a backstreet hotel room, curtains closed and his mobile on the bed in front of him. He dials John's number but stops before the last digit then turns off the phone._


	2. Year 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock holds on to that smile – keeps it, remembers, flashes it like a beacon – to use as an end point, the one thing which he knows must never change and must be there at the very end._  
>  John feels as though he hasn’t laughed this much in a year, more than a year. He feels like he’s barely known how to smile but every moment with Mary, every wink, every time she only opens her mouth to say hello he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentally cast Idris Elba as Sebastian Moran, so feel free to imagine him as you read.

John meets Dr. Mary Morstan by, quite literally, crashing into her.

John pulled the night shift the day before; so when seven AM rolled around and he was into hour nine of his ‘work day,’ a coffee was needed like water on fire. When John leaves the coffee shop, hurrying because two cross nurses is enough without his angering more, he turns the corner then slams full into someone, splattering his coffee, and apparently hers as well, all over the both of them.

“Fuck!”

“Shit!”

They both scream in pain from the hot liquid as their cups fly into the air. Her purse hits the wall of the building while he wails his hip into one of the chairs in front of the cafe. She slips, grabbing onto his arm so they almost both go down but he manages to catch a hand on the window sill beside him, saving them. She hisses in pain as she stands back upright while John waves his hands around in the air to make the sting stop. They both wipe at their soaked shirts unsuccessfully with their hands and peer awkwardly at each other.

“You all –“

“Did I hurt –“

They laugh at the same time and she holds up her hand. “Me first?” John nods. “You fine?”

“Except for my shirt.”

She winces. “Yeah, mine too.”

Looking around them, John finally spies his paper cup lying in the gutter. “Not so much can be said for our coffees.”

She laughs once as she picks up her black purse. “Well, I was heading back in because my order was wrong anyway.”

“Blessing in disguise?”

She smiles and shrugs. “Not really, now I’m back to class with nothing new to wear.”

John frowns. “You’re a student? You don’t look young enough to – I mean, uh, that is –“

She waves a hand. “No, no, I’m a professor and, no, I am not insulted by the ‘don’t look young’ comment.”

“So, no foot in my mouth?”

She smiles and tosses her short, blond hair just slightly. “Well, you can keep trying if you like.”

John laughs then stops abruptly with surprise. When was the last time he laughed for real?

She watches him for a moment then raises her eyebrows expectantly. “What?”

“Uh, nothing, I…” John shakes his head. “I’m John, by the way, John Watson.”

She smiles. “Dr. Mary Morstan, pleasure, Mr. Watson.”

“Actually, I’m a doctor as well.”

Her eyebrows fly up again and she chuckles. “Fancy party we’re at. Do you teach or are you strictly research?”

“Actually, I’m a surgeon.” John points down the street behind her. “Just there over at the hospital.”

Mary does a sort of bob motion on her toes to give a cursory glance behind her then turns back to him. She nods approvingly. “Impressive.”

“And you the professor,” John replies with a wave of his hand toward her. “Professor of?”

“English.”

“Literature? Writing?”

“Literature.”

“At?”

“Oxford. Do you tend to interrogate everyone you pour coffee on in the street?”

John sighs with a smile. “I, uh, no, sorry. I guess I picked it up from…” John clears his throat and presses his lips together. “Picked it up from a friend of mine.”

She smiles and John notices how straight her teeth are though not perfectly white. “Well, luckily for you I am resistant to interrogation since I teach discussion classes.”

John nods. “I remember a few classes at university like that.”

“Uh huh.” Mary holds up a finger. “I have more than a few in my pocket.”

Suddenly John realizes they’ve been standing there talking for five minutes and he is going to be late getting back to the hospital. John frowns and wipes at his shirt once more. “Speaking of… uh… pockets? Or not… Anyway, I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Yeah.”

“Healing the sick.”

“Important.”

“Can be.”

Mary holds out her hand which John takes and they shake. “Nice to pour coffee all over you.”

“Likewise.”

“Would you…” she starts, still holding his hand. Then she lets go and clears her throat. “Would you like to actually drink coffee together sometime, maybe even eat dinner?”

John blinks and sees Sherlock’s face flash behind his eyes. “Well, I don’t know if…”

“Don’t know if you’ll want to drink coffee again?” She jokes.

John opens his mouth and stares at her for a moment; just a tad shorter than him and eyes that can’t seem to decide it they are hazel or green. Mary cocks her head to the side and does not break his gaze. 

John nods slowly. “All right, coffee or maybe even dinner.”

\---------

_Sherlock finds the climate of Hong Kong less oppressive than expected yet still obviously hotter than England in the summer. Luckily for his person the day includes only a light spatter of rain in the morning leaving the rest of the day humid but dry. However, Sherlock isn’t here for the weather or the sight-seeing._

_Sherlock fights his way through the crowds down by Victoria Harbor, hooded sweatshirt hiding as much of his pale white skin as possible. Nothing, however, can hide his height so he still stands out among the average man almost a foot shorter than him. Of course some younger generations of old expatriate British citizens still live in Hong Kong so with his accent he is not a complete oddity. It would be far worse if he were American, flashing his money around so he is mugged twice over. In actual fact, Sherlock’s height and obvious difference from the regular Chinese citizen should work to his advantage. Instead of searching for the Moriarty middle man for days on end, it is more likely the individual will come to him._

_Sherlock spends the morning of his first day in well crowded areas, walks the avenue of the stars and pretends to be detective, pretending to be the tourist until the afternoon when he steps off the beaten path and into the real ‘chase.’_

_Sherlock first notices his quarry following him as he buys some Satay from a street vendor just as the sun has set ten minutes past. It only takes about twenty minutes of weaving through tightly packed streets, and two acceptable alleys before Sherlock ducks down one and – just one minute later – slams the man following him into the metal of a closed shop under a ripped awning._

_“I thought it was time we met in person, Mr. Zhao.”_

_“I –“_

_“Were following me?” Sherlock smirks. “Obvious.”_

_Zhao’s expression twitches and he struggles slightly against Sherlock’s hold. “You were not exactly trying to hide.”_

_“Why would I, when you would be so obliging as to find me?”_

_Zhao tilts up his chin. “You’ve been hunting down those who worked with…” He clears his throat. “You know.”_

_“Moriarty.”_

_He frowns as though Sherlock cursed then suddenly jerks his chest up unexpectedly. Sherlock’s elbow bashes into the metal door and the man slams his forearm into Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock yelps but only backs up a step, trying to maintain control. Zhao slams the palm of his other hand into Sherlock’s stomach and manages to disorient Sherlock enough that he slides to the side and away from the wall. Sherlock shakes his head to jolt into action but stops a second later when he sees that Zhao has not attempted to flee. Instead, Zhao stands a meter away in the alley, facing Sherlock._

_Sherlock tilts his head. “Do you have something to tell me then?”_

_“You should stop this hunt.”_

_“Should I?”_

_Zhao nods. “Do you think you have nothing to lose? Do you think it has not been noticed?”_

_Sherlock presses his lips together but only raises an eyebrow. “For a one man target you all must be doing a poor job if you care to stop me.”_

_“Your target is one man as well, you know this.”_

_Sherlock remembers a map on his wall, pages of research, every person leading to another and all the crimes arranged and carried out by one man at the top. But every leader must have his middle men and, despite The Woman’s direct connection, Sherlock knows – of course, obvious, inevitable – most who worked with Moriarty never spoke to him. Would Jim really only work with phone calls? Who would deliver the plans, help organize the museum connections, the poison shipments, the instructions, who would Moriarty entrust with his crime?_

_“Well? Who then?”_

_Zhao laughs and it sounds throaty, defeated. “Now that you have found me, he will kill me if you do not.”_

_“Who?”_

_“You think you are the only one who found himself an ex-military sharp shooter?” He snaps back._

_Sherlock forces himself not to react, not to let a face appear in his mind. He clenches his teeth, smiling like an animal. “Meaning?”_

_Zhao takes a step closer to Sherlock, his expression the smallest bit hopeful. “Would you kill this man?”_

_“If I had to.”_

_“You will have to.”_

_“Then I will.”_

_Zhao stares at Sherlock for moment as if he could read Sherlock’s sincerity or his conviction in just Sherlock’s face. He shakes his head and looks toward the building wall._

_“He will surely kill me,” Zhao mutters to himself._

_“Then tell me his name before he takes his chance.”_

_Zhao glances at Sherlock sharply but Sherlock has no pity for his plight. The man laughs with a hollow sound and his shoulders slump. Sherlock frowns and closes the distance between them again, his face centimeters from Zhao’s._

_“Tell me his name.”_

_Zhao begins to shake then whispers, “Sebastian Moran.”_

\---------

John and Mary’s first date takes place over dinner, no spilled coffee fortunately for both of their wardrobes. John picks the restaurant, within his own non-insane price limits, and Mary insists upon a booth by a window.

“What if someone else does a coffee cup smash?” She waves a hand at the street outside. “We can’t miss that!”

Mary orders them a bottle of red wine and John resists sneaking two pints to chug instantly. John’s nerves on dates usually stay within reason, in the background and low level, since his well-practiced charm usually wins any woman over. Yet on this date he smiles a touch too wide to keep his face normal and his fingers want to tap out erratic patterns on the table top every ten seconds. 

“So,” Mary says with extra teeth and an eyebrow raise, “nice restaurant.”

“Got it out of a catalog.”

She chuckles. “The shipping cost must have been hell.”

John nods – fall back on the charm – and pats his top jacket pocket. “Did I mention you’re paying for dinner?”

She laughs again. “Oh well, then you’re sending it back and I’ll go get chips and a pint.”

John finds himself smiling again, easy and normal like he does it all the time now. The realization makes his expression fall back down again just as instantly. She stares at him for a moment and her smiles sags a little.

“But really, it’s nice. I haven’t been here before.”

“Ah, well,” John clears his throat and nods. “I actually heard about it from a friend so thought to try it.”

“Well, give them a quid for a job well done.” Mary leans over the table conspiratorially. “Though not more than that; there is velvet in here!”

John grins and this time the expression stays. “Bad form.”

They order an appetizer of spinach dip and then entrees both including chicken, though hers also has pasta while he remains strictly carnivorous this meal.

“So,” she asks taking a sip of her glass of wine, “are you going to interrogate me again?”

“Do you want me to?”

She shrugs. “It’s the thing for some people on dates.”

“Your thing?”

“I try to slip it in more casually wrapped up in flowery prose so the purpose is disguised yet still executed but perhaps you like skipping the prose to jab right to the point?”

“Ah ha,” John points at her and picks up his glass, “did it right there?”

Mary raises her eyebrows and grins. “Can’t put anything past you.”

“It’s that army training.”

She pauses and puts her glass down. “You were in the army? Isn’t that a bit counter the doctor thing?”

“Well, I was an army surgeon, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

She purses her lips and nods slowly. He sees the looks pass over her face which most people give him once the idea of him in war settles in – ‘he doesn’t seem like an army bloke, he was a doctor though, did he kill anyone, is he all screwed up?’ But then Mary only smiles instead of turning serious and sympathetic like so many others.

Cocking her head to the side, Mary picks up her wine again. “So, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John swallows hard – Barts, Mike, the lab, Sherlock reaching out to take John's mobile – and his one hand suddenly clamps around the edge of the table. His wine glass shakes in his hand and John carefully puts it down on the table before he sloshes wine everywhere. Mary stares at him with surprise and sits up straight.

“I’m sorry, do you not like to talk about –“

“It’s fine,” John croaks out and nods. “It’s fine.”

“Are… are you sure?” Her eyes flick to his hand which still shakes even as John presses it as hard as he can onto the table. “I can –“

“No, really.” John pulls both his hands off the table to hide them in his lap. “All fine.”

Mary stares at him a moment longer then picks up her wine again. “Okay then, new topic, how do you feel about Shakespeare?”

John blinks and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. He clears his throat, “As a person or his works?”

She grins. “Both but I warn you, we are talking full range of his life and the histories, not just Romeo and Juliet here.”

The dinner lasts forty-five minutes after they wolf down their appetizer and then slow a bit for their entrees. The conversation ranges from John’s near win of 500 quid in a pint drinking contest to the basis of Arthurian legend in the Harry Potter books. By the time the waiter comes to try and persuade them into dessert, John’s hands no longer shake and his muscles are all relaxed.

Outside John hails a cab for Mary, succeeding after two pass them by, one with a drunken girl hanging her head half out the window.

“So,” Mary says with her hand on the open car door, “no requests of ‘back to mine?’”

“I – oh… well, I mean…”

She laughs and touches his hand. “I was joking.”

“Oh.” John nods. “Yeah, sorry, I’ve just been… been a while since I’ve…”

Mary nods back and moves her hand from his. “As before, not insulted, unless you’re saying you don’t want to see me again?” She smiles but he sees the nervous edge to it.

John shakes his head. “No, I would.”

Her smile widens to completely real. “Perfect.” She rises up on her toes and kisses him quickly on the lips. Then she hops back down again onto flat feet. “I had a lovely time.”

She slides into the cab and John shuts the door behind her. He stands on the street watching the cab until it moves completely out of his sight. John wants to smile, wants to call her right away and tell her she’s a delight, she’s beautiful, she’s the most fun he’s had in months but instead he listens to Sherlock’s voice in his head whispering ‘betrayal.’

\---------

_At least once a day – often more, every morning, every evening – Sherlock catalogs John Watson in his brain._

_Sherlock’s life now constantly moves forward, moves along a line of crime after plot after knot of a tangled web. All he ever thinks about is James Moriarty and what could his hands have clutched. With so much cataloged information little things have to drop off or file away, put in a back room of his mind palace for recovery in the rare need. John Watson is not something – someone – he wants to file away. Sherlock must keep John at the very front of his mind, clear as if they still spent every day together. If Sherlock starts to forget little pieces of John what will happen to Sherlock? Will he remember to ever return from this quest?_

_Sherlock catalogs description: 1.7 meters, dirty blond hair, touches of gray, short – mostly military cut, penchant for sweaters, black jacket with odd leather patches, mouth capable of curiously subtle change of expression as well as the most vibrant smiles. Military life resulted in rough hands with specific places more defined due to surgery, scalpel always held the same way._

_Sherlock remembers running through the street, metal cuffs digging into their wrists._

_“Take my hand.”_

_“Now people will really talk.”_

_John’s hand scratched against his own smoother hand with the slight bite of nails digging into his skin from the rush of running and pulling._

_Sherlock catalogs habits: tea in the morning, tea at two, tea at five, never after eight; prefers Lady Grey over Earl Grey; always ties his left shoe first and then his right; tilts head when thinking; blogs more from the chair than the table; sleeps with the door cracked open, sleeps on his side, facing the door, wakes easily if the sound is Sherlock._

_Sherlock remembers late nights – one late night._

_“Sherlock, come on, it’s after…”_

_Sherlock opens his eyes at John’s voice and pauses his bow arm. He waits for John to continue, keeping his violin at his shoulder._

_“Yes?”_

_John sits down across from Sherlock. “Never mind, keep playing.”_

_Sherlock catalogs conversations, speeches, John’s voice:_

_Together in a cab for the first time, “That… was amazing.”_

_A speech in anger, “There are lives, Sherlock, real human lives!”_

_In jest, “But not the way she treats royalty.”_

_Alone, “I told you, Cludeo doesn’t work like that, Sherlock. It is just a game after all.”_

_Together, alone, “Fine, you can sit next to me if you’re cold but that’s why you can’t do experiments with the thermostat.”_

_Together, just the two of them, alone, “You know, I would not rather be anywhere else right now.”_

_Just one word, “Sherlock…”_

_Sherlock catalogs smiles: slight upturn of the lips and tight pressure in the front when he knows he should not be amused; lips together, casual upturn at the corners and raised eyebrows when he acts sassy or sarcastic; mouth slightly open, lips pulled back from his teeth, and only half an actual smile when Sherlock amazes him again; mouth small and cheeks engaged when he feels fond; big and wide and teeth and eyes and his entire face when he smiles like the light of the entire world lies between them and he looks up at Sherlock, happier than any other moment in time combined._

_Sherlock holds on to that smile – keeps it, remembers, flashes it like a beacon – to use as an end point, the one thing which he knows must never change and must be there at the very end._

\---------

“Hi, John, it’s Mary.”

John stops at the bottom of the stairs before the front door. “Hi, yeah.”

“So, I was wondering if you wanted to -”

“I don’t know if -”

“Oh, I... I’m sorry, I... didn’t we have a good -”

“No, yes, I did; we did. Great time. It was great. It’s just -”

“But you said after that you wanted –“

“I know, I know I did.”

“Then what...”

John breathes in slowly, leans a hand against the wall and bites his lip. “I just... Well. I.... things with me are -”

“Is this a ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech?” John hears her chuckle through the phone. “It was just one date, John.”

“No, I know, I’m just going through -”

“Ah, bad break up?”

John feels his leg shake for a moment and he fists his hand. The person he wants is gone; the person he wants back is never coming back. John tries to repeat the mantra in his head, remind himself it has been over a year now. John closes his eyes and focuses, pushes the memory of running down these stairs, running to another case, another rush of life, pushes it back.

“John? Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” John opens his eyes again.

“Look,” her tone turns more serious, “I had a really good time and I think it’s worth a shot to see where this might go.”

“Mary...”

“You look sad, John, I could see that.” John stiffens and his fingernails scratch against the wallpaper. “But maybe I want to see what else you’ve got under there. I know that can’t be it and I’m willing to, well...” She clears her throat. “I’m willing to put in the time.”

There is a long pause until John finds his voice. “Right.”

“So, why don’t we do a second date and just see, okay? One more date.”

She’s trying, John can see that, trying to pull him out and bring him back though they barely know each other yet. John knows sorrow cannot last forever; he cannot just let himself fall back into that pool time and again. If she’s trying for him, then maybe he should try too.

“Dinner?” John asks.

\---------

_“No, no, that is ridiculous.”_

_“Mr. House...”_

_Sherlock smacks the desk. “It is not just one man, it was a whole web. What do you think I am doing here?” The woman in the corner crosses her arms and the detective seated at the desk frowns. Sherlock breathes through his nose and stands up straight. “I am simply saying this one man did not commit this murder alone, he had help.”_

_“Based on what?”_

_“There is a connection.” To a past case Sherlock can’t mention. “I know my work.”_

_“You sound more like a vigilante to me, pulling conspiracies out of the air.”_

_Sherlock grinds his teeth and frowns. “And you sound like a man past his prime holding a seat until another intrepid detective with only half a brain boots you out.”_

_“I think we’re done here.” The man stands up. “You know the way out.”_

_Sherlock does not move. “I need a copy of the case files. It could help me in my search for the man’s connection.”_

_“What!” The man scoffs. “Are you serious?”_

_“I will actually make use of –“_

_“You are not police!” The detective barks. “We don’t have to give you anything.”_

_“I gave you a murderer.”_

_The man smirks. “Well, good on your civic duty.”_

_Sherlock tried being patient, he tried playing the game but as time goes on he cannot be anything but himself, cannot remain calm and fake and deferential in the face of such obvious idiocy. Every police force frustrates him and actually makes him long for Lestrade. He cannot waste time with proving to every stupid, incompetent detective the ins and outs of their own jobs. If he tries to actually solve crimes why cannot they?_

_Sherlock turns on his heel and storms through the door. “Goodbye then.”_

\----------

 

John likes Mary, he really does. She’s smart, funny, just the right amount of sassy, laughs wholeheartedly, smiles easily and seems to have the same weakness for hard to love cases as he does. With her, part of John which he thought lost reappears, the part which remembers how to smile. 

She enjoys action movies, a huge fan of James Bond though her penchant for Pierce Brosnan in the role could be problematic.

“I don’t know; he just pulls off the suave so well.”

John scoffs. “And Connery didn’t?”

She shakes her head. “I never said he beat Sean Connery only that he’s just as good and has perfect hair.”

Though, she also forces him into seeing the most recent romance movie that centers around dogs.

“Are you tearing up now?”

“Shh, no!” She rasps. “But if I was, it’s due to the dog.”

(Luckily for John she does not own a dog).

She invites him to coffee at least once a week while John tops that with dinners and the odd museum trip thrown in. They always find something to talk about and the kissing has only increased even if neither has been to the other’s place yet. ‘Taking it slow’ certainly is a new thing for John.

However, the pace of the budding relationship is not due to restraint rather his brain only ever half engages with her while the other half still lives one year back.

John walks through the graves, Sherlock’s behind him with a small bouquet of white flowers. They solved one of John’s favorite cases two years ago today. John knows the gesture does not really match the occasion but what else can he do now? Suddenly his mobile rings.

John pulls it from his pocket and answers without looking at the name. “Yeah?”

“John?” Mary’s voice says sounding worried.

“Hi Mary.”

“Are you… where are you?”

John looks around him as he reaches the cemetery gate. “What do you mean?”

“I mean lunch.”

John stops walking and sighs. “Shit.”

She sighs back. “You forgot?”

“I had to go to… I had…” He clears his throat. “I’ll be there soon.”

They have good times together, when he lets it happen, they really do. When they hit the pub the night lasts three hours minimum every time because they either end up in a drinking contest or laughing so hard they spill their drinks and have to buy another to make it up to the bar tender. He's accidentally ditched or messed up more than once, more than twice and she keeps coming back. John wants to ask her why, ask her what she sees is this half shell of a man thrown back into the step by step life he had before. 

“John?”

John stares at the painting on the wall, a waterfall over a cliff that looks so familiar, so German. 

“John?” 

John watches the painted water slide down and down to the hard ground below, hitting like daggers of death.

Mary touches his hand and John snaps back into the room. “What?”

She stares at him and pulls her hand back. She bites her lip once and shakes her head. “Never mind. Coffee’s cold, shall we go?”

John looks down at his three fourths full cup of coffee and stands up with her. “All right.”

Mary takes his hand as they walk out the door. “You know, you’re going to have to tell me some time.”

John frowns. “Tell you what?”

“Where it is you go.”

John stops on the street and she walks two more steps before turning back. She raises an eyebrow but says nothing. He watches her for a moment but from the way she stands, the way she looks at him, she’s not going anywhere. Ah.

“You want to come back to my place?” He asks.

She smiles. “Oh?”

“No, not like… I mean, well. It’s three months now, isn’t it?” 

She nods. “Last week, yeah.”

He breathes in once slowly, looks at her and feels that small kindle of a light inside him that if he just lets it might burn brighter and brighter. He tugs her toward him and she wraps one arm around his waist. He turns them about in the opposite direction and puts an arm around her back.

“Come on,” he breathes slowly in and out, “I want to tell you about Sherlock Holmes.”

\---------

_Sherlock handled New York City; everything was overly bright, overly garish, and obviously American but still just a city. New York City breathed cars and people and sights and tourists and the ease of every entertainment and every vice. It was hardly different than London except for age, class, and accent. Also, the tea was about 50% less acceptable._

_Texas, on the other hand, is a brand of American Sherlock simply cannot subscribe to._

_“More?” The woman behind the counter asks, coffee pot in hand._

_Sherlock suppresses his grimace as much as he can, which is to say not much at all, and nods. “Pleasure.”_

_She grins back as she does every time he speaks. “A pleasure to pour you more!”_

_Sherlock stares with the desire to smack the pot from her hand so it smashes against the wall. She pours more coffee into his mug, spilling some onto the counter then trots away with her overly sprayed hair bouncing. Sherlock spares two seconds to contemplate what sort of continuous path of choices would leave a twice married woman with three adult children, two living at home, still working as a waitress in a off the highway diner. Class in America has a different sort of behavior and flow than Britain. At least in England they acknowledge it while the Yanks like to pretend the “American dream” is an attainable reality for all. Sherlock considers offering her the advice of prostitution as a more lucrative career choice but he prefers to remain inside the diner for the time being and not in the dirt._

_Sherlock picks up his mug, steels himself with a quick intake of breath then gulps down some coffee. Sherlock hisses through his teeth, “Appalling,” then puts the mug down again._

_In front of Sherlock on the counter top rests a copy of a sales receipt. The receipt lists the date - five days ago - cash payment, and the purchases of two sniper rifles, one with built in sights. The background check was for a James F. Smith, a resident of Oklahoma but Sherlock knows the real purchaser was one Sebastian Moran._

_“Buying a gun in Texas, cliché,” Sherlock says to himself and frowns, “However...”_

_It could be a trap? Or a tease? Or not? Maybe Moran isn’t as smart as all those cornered criminals seem to think. Sometimes the idea is worse than the man, and ‘sometimes’ really is most always. But if Moran was the trusted second and trusted assassin of Jim Moriarty perhaps he is the exception._

_“Why go to Texas for a pair of rifles? They are hardly unique.”_

_Unless of course Moran simply has a target in Texas to remove of, finishing his master’s work? Rifles imply a planned kill, far off, obviously skilled shooter to use distance shots, no attempt at cover up with an obvious gunshot wound. Or it’s a ploy, a trick to throw Sherlock off the scent by implying the purchase means an upcoming kill nearby._

_Though it behooves Sherlock to admit, Moran leaves fewer clues than Sherlock prefers. Why should he expect the chase to be easy after all? But one can only run so long and Sherlock will not stop following._

_“How about some pie?”_

_Sherlock’s eyes jerk up from his single receipt to the persistent woman. “Pie?”_

_“We have pecan, apple, blueberry, though the key lime is my personal favorite.”_

_“I am thinking,” Sherlock replies curtly and looks back to the piece of paper._

_“Oh, but a bit of something could help all that along, try it.” She pats one of his hands. “Come on, hun.”_

_Sherlock jerks his hand away. “The one thing which would surely help my analysis along would be your removal from my presence.”_

_She stands up straight and frowns. “Now there is no need for that. Y’all need to watch your tone around here.”_

_“And you need to tell your sons to move out, I would imagine at around thirty-five they should be able to find their own accommodations or are you so desperate for their attention?”_

_She almost drops her coffee pot and her mouth falls open in shock. Her voice appears to be unusable because she flees to the opposite end of the counter without even a ‘fuck you.’ Sherlock stares at the old coffee maker on the inside of the diner counter. He hears John’s voice beside him, “Sherlock, what have I told you?”_

_“Something about empathy,” Sherlock whispers._

_Sherlock flicks his eyes to the empty stool beside him. He shuts them for a moment, tries to imagine John beside him - charming smile, just enough deference, ‘yes, of course, the blueberry pie,’ hand grabbing Sherlock’s knee before he opens his mouth to analyze her faults, ‘no, Sherlock, let’s not get kicked out.’_

_Sherlock opens his eyes again to see the empty stool. He glances down the bar; the middle aged waitress and the three men on his side of the counter glare back at him. Sherlock picks up the gun receipt and puts it into his pocket. He leaves ten dollars on the counter for the coffee sludge and stands up._

_As he exits the dismal diner - every eye staring, glaring, judging - he thinks, ‘Perhaps John would be better at this.’_

\--------

John and Mary stand at the bar surrounded by other revelers on Christmas Eve. Mary wears a bell around her neck combined with elf ears while John sports a new Christmas sweater patterned like red poinsettias.

“I still wish you’d worn the Santa hat,” Mary shouts over the noise of the crowded pub.

“Santa and his special elf?”

She grimaces then shakes her head. “Maybe not, yeah.”

“I’ve got the ugly Christmas sweater.”

“Do you want the bell as well?” Mary asks, holding up one side of the red ribbon.

John laughs. “No, that’s elf or reindeer, right?”

She shrugs. “I guess you can just ring my bell instead.”

She grins wickedly and John snorts with amusement. Mary picks up their beers off the bar, handing one to John. They knock their glasses together and gulp down some beer. John turns, taking Mary’s wrist, and tries to pull them through the crowd away from the bar. The bar top is decorated with garland and white lights strung around the rows of liquor as well as throughout the bar up by the ceiling. All the tables are filled so John picks a spot to stand near the stairs to the second floor.

“Merry Christmas,” Mary says, drinking from her glass again. “Are you seeing your sister tomorrow?”

John holds up his one hand, fingers crossed. “She said she’d cook.”

Mary raises her eyebrows like a shot. “Didn’t you tell me a story of a charred chicken and liquefied zucchini, fleeing into the street at the threat of imminent death?” Mary puts a dramatic hand to her chest. “Should I fear for your safety?”

John laughs again and shakes his head. “Maybe?”

“I’m sure not the worst of your past adventures.” She smiles slightly, that touch of worry that she’s gone too far.

John smiles back. “Definitely, no chemical explosions or gun threats.” John tilts his head. “I hope.”

Mary laughs and shakes her elf ears. “Danger Season, the life of John Watson.” She puts on a mock serious face. “A new special this Christmas!”

John laughs again, nearly spilling some of his beer. “I’ve already set my DVR.”

She claps her hand on the wall. “Perfect!”

“Part one army while parts two through five are all Sherlock Holmes,” John quips and the name barely stings to say.

“And part six?” Mary asks with an eyebrow raise.

“Oh, Dr. Mary Morstan, of course.”

She nods sagely, slipping her arm around his. “I knew it.”

John chuckles again as if there is no room for anything but happiness. He feels as though he hasn’t laughed this much in a year, more than a year. He feels like he’s barely known how to smile but every moment with Mary, every wink, every time she only opens her mouth to say hello he smiles. 

“John, come here.” She moves backward a step.

“Hmm?”

She lets go of him and waves with her free hand. “Come to me, sweater man.”

She backs up two more steps until she stands right at the foot of the stairs. John steps up in front of her, nearly chest to chest.

He raises his eyebrows. “So?”

She very slowly looks up. John follows her gaze and, as he should have expected, hangs a sprig of mistletoe. He looks down again at her cheeky grin.

“Saucy minx,” John says mimicking Hugh Grant.

She pulls his sweater with one hand, wrapping her beer arm around his back and kisses him. John breathes through his nose, kisses her hard - peppermint and lager - and keeps her tight against him with his empty hand at the small of her back. Mary kisses slowly, bites his bottom lip once and purrs until she pulls back to look into his eyes.

“Hmm, Merry Christmas, doctor.”

“And to you, doctor.”

They both burst into laughter again, Mary spilling some beer on the back of his sweater but neither of them stops laughing to care. Someone in the pub begins singing a Christmas carol that takes at least one verse to define as ‘Deck the Halls’ and then the whole pub starts singing along.

“While I tell of Yuletide treasure!” Mary sings.

“Fa la lalala,” John adds, blurring all the ‘la’s into one long noise.

Mary starts to bounce with the music, bell dinging against her chest. She holds up her pint glass and John clanks his against hers again.

“Okay?” She says, raising her eyebrows with her beer held up in front of her in the obvious ‘down it’ motion. “On three?”

John nods. “One -”

“Three!” She barks and begins chugging.

“Little -” John cuts himself off and chugs with her.

They knock the remainders of their beers back, Mary finishing just two seconds before John. She shakes drops of beer off her face and cheers. “The professor wins!”

“By cheating!”

She grins guiltily. “I am smaller than you; I needed a handicap.”

John scoffs. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

“Oh, you certainly can.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively then blows out a puff of air. “See, look what all this chugging beer does. You’ve got me making inappropriate sexual innuendos!”

“I disagree with the inappropriate.”

“Hmm,” She looks at the crowds of revelers around them and shrugs. “Perhaps not in public?”

“Do you know how happy you make me?” John says suddenly. Mary stops rocking to the music and stares at him. “I know it’s only been four, five months, but, well...” John laughs. “You make me laugh again.”

Mary smiles very slowly. “I’ll keep up the good work.”

John sighs, smiles, and pulls her close. “Oh, don’t stop.”

She rests her head against his chest, “Merry Christmas, John.”

\--------

_Sherlock was uncertain of finding another serial killer paid by Jim to make his kills. On the one hand the idea of ‘serial killer for cash’ appeared completely fantastic even though Sherlock had seen it in person. Yet, on the other hand, Jim Moriarty had the talent to recruit his own particular type of preferred individual. Also, since the checks will have stopped to any serial killers on the payroll would their killings continue as before? Sherlock prefers serial killers, prefers the patterns and the evolution and the expectation. But to find one paid by Moriarty, slim chances._

_Yet when Edith Clarke pins Sherlock onto the hotel bed, knees digging painfully into his forearms and feet hooked over his thighs, Sherlock knows Jefferson Hope was not the only one._

_Edith’s hair hangs just above her chin, straight but for the way she tucks it behind her ears; pale blue eyes so they aren’t gray but neither are they any sort of ‘sky blue’ written about in poetry; her skin while not dark is not entirely classically British white and Sherlock guesses at some Indian heritage a couple generations back. She reaches 1.7 meters, far closer to Sherlock’s height than most women so her weight, while not matching his, in this position is enough to keep him down. Also, the knife to his neck is an added incentive not to move._

_“Are you Mr. Holmes?”_

_Sherlock’s lip quirks. “Heard of me?”_

_“Hmm, until now it was all past tense. Full of surprises, as they say?”_

_“As are you.”_

_“Who did you think you were chasing?” She lets the knife shift up then down to scratch against his one day growth of stubble. “Just another woman murdering her husband or perhaps a jewel thief, some other sort of criminal character on the payroll?”_

_“Former payroll as your boss is dead.”_

_She tilts her head. “Not my boss, financier.”_

_“You find a distinction?”_

_“I choose who I kill.”_

_Sherlock smiles and taps his fingertips against his palms, the only thing he can really move. “Ah yes, the teenagers. Did you prefer the girls or the boys? One of them slice better?”_

_Her mouth quirks slightly and for a moment it feels like looking into a mirror but then she tilts her head the other way and shakes it slowly._

_“They slice the same; it’s the pleadings that sound different.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Boys want their mothers but the girls often just scream or keep saying please.” She raises both eyebrows and Sherlock notices the lack of any real smiles, the unnatural forms of expression mirrored from years of practicing off others instead of feeling emotions herself. “The screams, oh, those are different for each person, gives you a real appreciation for the human voice.” And there is one real smile. “My favorite part.”_

_Sherlock frowns deeply at her and cocks his head in a mockery of her motions. “Are you hoping for screams from me?”_

_She shifts her weight forward onto her knees and his arms feel like they might break. Sherlock gasps sharply and bites his lip to keep in the groan. She jabs the points of her shoes up into his groin and Sherlock cannot stop a croak of pain. Her lip quirks again and she digs the nails of her other hand into his shoulder._

_“If you don’t scream at first I will just have to try and try again, won’t I?”_

_“If that pleases you, but you are the psychopath.”_

_She does not even blink at the term. Instead she lets go of his shoulder and reaches up into his hair. She leans forward so her breasts just barely touch his chest._

_“Perhaps I should make you scream another way?” She slides the knife delicately across his skin at the right angle until she pushes down so he hisses and a line of blood drips down the side of his neck. “If you are so unafraid of pain.” She chuckles and pulls his curls, presently a light brown. “Any woman, or man even, can see how attractive you are. Why waste a perfectly good body without trying it out first?”_

_Sherlock sneers. “Since you clearly possess the faculties to appreciate sex.”_

_She chuckles low in her throat. “You know how serial killers are, Mr. Holmes, they kill to feel something, to see death at their hands, to understand power or lust or love or excitement by the look of blood; to reach feeling in a physical way and from the fear in their victims eyes.” Her voice drips with anticipation, with eagerness. “But pain isn’t the only thing which can entice that level of fear.”_

_She reaches down between them and slides her hand up his inner thigh, nails scratching up and against the zipper of his jeans. “Killing is about power, the power to bring out fear in your victim.” She slides the knife against his neck again, bringing up more blood so he winces, then she bites the skin next to his eye. “It’s about complete power over someone else.”_

_“But how long can you keep it,” Sherlock says, turns his head up toward her, ignoring the bile in the back of his throat, “I am larger than you are and how long can you stay focused on keeping your knife hand sure?”_

_“Oh, but you are the one in the weaker position and your arms will break before my legs will tire.” She squeezes his crotch so it hurts then leans harder with her right knee so much that his arm may indeed break in a minute. Sherlock gasps hard and bites his tongue, tries to pull his arm away from the sharp bone of her knee but she has him pinned perfectly. She hums in the back of her throat and licks at the line of blood on his neck. “Just admit, Sherlock, right now you are mine.”_

_Suddenly, Sherlock’s mobile on the dresser across the room vibrates loudly on the cracked wood. Edith tenses with surprise, concentration broken and Sherlock twists his left arm so her knee falls off onto the bed. He hits in her in the side of the head as hard as he can. The knife nips him in the cheek but she falls off him enough that Sherlock pulls himself free of her weight pinning him down. He rolls off the bed onto the floor, woozy for just a second with blood flow returning to his arms._

_Then Edith jumps on him, rolling them across the carpet. She swings her arm with the knife, stabbing down into the carpet and slicing off a clump of his hair. The knife sticks in the floor so when Sherlock shoves her to the side, it snaps out of her hand. She knees him in the stomach and jumps up to her feet. She reaches into her suit jacket and pulls out another knife. Before she can lunge for him again, however, Sherlock clambers to his feet and plants into a fighting stance. She swings, he ducks, and slams his shoulder into her sternum._

_“Fuck!” She shouts and hits the wall with a smash then falls to the floor._

_The knife falls out of her hand and Sherlock lunges for it. However, Edith manages to kick out one of his legs so he trips over her and slams his head into the dresser. Sherlock shouts, tries to grab onto the top of the dresser but he stumbles, head spinning. The room blurs and Sherlock blinks over and over, trying to control his senses._

_“You cannot win forever,” Edith says and Sherlock turns to the sound of her voice. She grabs him by his bloody neck and slams him into the wall – stronger than expected, strong as a man his size – and brings a knife back to his throat. “You are already dead, anyway.”_

_“Police! Aufmachen!” someone shouts outside the door._

_Her eyes remain locked on his but the knife in her hand stays still._

_“What is the plan now, Edith?”_

_Her lip quirks. “Perhaps we both die now?”_

_The door smashes open and the Austrian police swarm into the room. Two men grab her arms and pull her away from Sherlock, the knife falling out of her hand. She puts up no resistance as they shout at her in German, cuffing her hands behind her back._

_“We can have a chat at the station instead,” Sherlock says and wipes a hand at the blood on his neck._

_She only smiles, fake and mimicked. “Or maybe back in England.” She tilts her head slightly. “Unless you can’t go home?”_

_“Sir?” One of the officers says questioningly and holds out a handkerchief._

_Sherlock takes it. “Tell Lt. Reinhardt I have more information for him about this woman.”_

_Edith watches him until she reaches the door and they march her away down the hall. Sherlock holds the handkerchief against his neck then bends down to pick up his mobile from under the tan chair by the wall. Sherlock clicks it on to see who could have possibly sent him a text – see who saved him._

_12:02 - Molly  
Happy New Year, Sherlock._

\---------

Mrs. Hudson decides to move back to Florida.

“I’ll still be your landlord, dear, just from across the pond. You keep that rent up on time!”

John nods. “Can’t have you forgetting me, can I?”

She reaches out and takes his hand. “As if I could forget you.” She pauses and squeezes his hand once. “Either of you.”

With Mrs. Hudson heading back to Florida, it will leave John alone in their small collection of flats though she tells him she hopes to find another renter for the flat she is leaving, maybe even the basement if she’s lucky. For some reason Mrs. Hudson packing up her flat pushes John over the edge into some new level of ‘acceptance.’ John decides to finally pack up Sherlock’s things.

Since Sherlock jumped, John has stayed away from Sherlock’s room. A few times he opened the door, stared at the bed and willed Sherlock to appear, to be sleeping the day away having fooled John again. John stopped doing that after he woke up once on Sherlock’s bed, three in the morning, face buried in Sherlock’s pillow just because it still smelled like Sherlock. John packed away some of Sherlock’s chemistry set, shoved beakers and Bunsen burners into a top shelf in the kitchen. He put away Sherlock’s laptop and some of his books and files which had cluttered the living room but that box still sits next to the couch.

“It’s the next step in really moving on,” John tells himself.

John starts in the living room. He takes all the old case files and notes he finds stuck into cracks on the bookshelves, a few under the couch and those packed away with the laptop. The bits and pieces are mostly a jumble, some folders or copies of book pages or maps or notes of ripped off pieces of paper but who knows what could be important in some future case? He gives them all to Lestrade.

“I don’t know if they’re anything you’ll need.” John shrugs as Greg lifts the top of the box a fraction to peer inside. “I didn’t want throw... I couldn’t… well, it was what he lived for.”

Greg’s eyes tick back up to John and he puts the box down on his desk. “You don’t want them?”

John shrugs again. “What would I do with them?”

“I don’t know, sentimental reasons?”

John wonders for a moment if Greg believed all the talk of him and Sherlock being a couple. John swallows and shakes his head. “I have plenty of things for sentiment.” John waves at Greg’s computer. “Plus, the blog.”

Greg nods. “Of course, the famous blog.” Greg pushes the lid back down on the box. “I’ll keep them.”

John moves on then to what’s left in the living room which is to say, books. The majority of the books on the shelves belonged to Sherlock. However, Sherlock never bothered to make a will so now the ownership of such ‘mundane’ things stays up in the air. John pulls off every single book, dividing up which ones definitely belonged to Sherlock and those which are his. He only ends up filling a shelf and a half with books for himself when he puts them back.

John takes a few books of Sherlock’s to keep; the dictionary because why not, London A to Z; he also keeps “Oxford Textbook of Suicidology and Suicide Prevention: A Global Perspective” by Danuta Wasserman and Camilla Wasserman even if he never finds the courage to open it. The remaining books he splits up into strictly crime related then everything else.

After the mountain of books there are odds and ends – the violin, the music stand, sheet music, the skull (John decides to keep it), some random obsolete computer equipment. John packs all the little bits up into more boxes, fills each space with miscellaneous things Sherlock deemed important to fill up their flat. John leaves Cluedo on the shelf because that box is so full of sentimentality it may burst and, yes, John would like a few physical reminders to remain. For some reason John twirls the Rubik cube in his hand for so long that he just puts it back on the mantel next to the skull and leaves it. The Sudoku cube goes in the box but John decides to just throw out the ridiculous harpoon.

He gives the books and the rest, of course the violin, to Mycroft. 

“I shall put them in storage.”

“If it’s too much to -”

“John,” Mycroft gives him a condescending look, “there is space enough in Holmes storage for some boxes.”

“I was going to say we could get rid of them, the books at least, sell them.” John’s throat tightens when he says it but he keeps thinking, be practical, be sensible.

Mycroft only narrows his eyes at John while his driver loads all the boxes into the trunk of the car – the violin in the back seat. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

John knows that’s not what Mycroft really wants to say. Perhaps John isn’t the only sentimental one.

The kitchen involves two large trash bags, double bagged, and a pair of gloves. John throws out anything which looks like it might have once been used in an experiment - two soup bowls with suspicious stains and four glasses with growth not of this world - along with all the strictly laboratory glass, careful to break as little as possible. John keeps the microscope; it still works perfectly after all. (Every time John looks at it he sees Sherlock - bent over, eyes focused, hand moving delicately, the occasional gasp of surprise but usually that hum of satisfaction - and John refuses to give that up just yet).

He ends up with two trash bags out on the street and one trash bag of surprises found in back corners of high cupboards sent to Barts for proper disposal.

He leaves Sherlock’s bedroom for last.

John stands outside the closed door for a minute, hand on the knob. “Okay, John, just do it.” He hasn’t opened the door for eight months. 

John hoists the flat boxes in his arm and twists the door open. John stares at the room, dim with the shades down, clean as every day Sherlock lived in it. The bed is made, the floor is clear, the pictures are straight, the closet is closed and the surfaces of every piece of furniture are nearly empty. If someone besides John saw this room they would never believe who it formerly belonged to.

John lays the boxes on the bed and folds them into shape. He pulls shirts and pants and jackets out of the closet, folds each one carefully and packs them in a box. He takes pajamas out of one drawer, old t-shirts from another - John balks at the sock drawer still perfectly organized - and fills another box. John strips the sheets off the bed, takes the pictures and other frames off the wall, fills a box with black shoes and a pair of sneakers.

John finds a comb on the dresser. His hand shakes for only a moment before he drops it into another box - not the trash, not yet. He takes the small black notebook from the desk and slips it into his pocket without opening it.

John lays back on Sherlock’s bed, head on the naked pillows, and boxes stacked at the foot of the bed. He glances left and right, the walls bare now and the room doesn’t look much different. John knows all the furniture in the room is now empty and the man who lived in this room – slept here, paced late at night, collapsed full of drugs, played his violin until John came down to sit beside him on Sherlock’s bed and listen for an hour or more – is gone.

“God...” John whispers staring hard at the ceiling.

He hasn’t cried in months, hasn’t stopped short breathing too heavily, hasn’t woken up from a dream of Sherlock falling. 

“Fuck.” Tears leak weakly out of John’s eyes, just a few, just for a moment but he puts his fist to his mouth and has to force his breathing to slow down. “Damn it, Sherlock.”

\---------

_In Quebec City Sherlock receives a letter._

_“Sir?”_

_Sherlock stops a step past the front desk of the better than disgusting hotel his room unfortunately is in. He turns on his heel and looks at the man behind the desk. He raises his eyebrows as the man just stares at him._

_“Oh, pardon, a letter was left for you?”_

_Sherlock frowns. “Is it a question?”_

_“Well.” The man reaches back into the wall of cubbies behind him and pulls out a letter – white envelope, standard personal correspondence size. He holds it out._

_Sherlock stares for a moment then steps over to the desk. He takes the envelope with his gloved hand and checks the front. He clenches his teeth and looks up at the desk clerk again._

_“This was left for me?”_

_“I know, I do not understand the word either, Mr. Hawkes, but the gentleman who left it indicated your room number. If you think it is an error I can take it back.”_

_The man holds out his hand but Sherlock only turns and walks the opposite direction back into the hotel. Sherlock takes the elevator to the third floor, walks to his room and closes the door quietly behind him. He sits at the desk and puts the envelope with the word ‘Sherlock’ on the front flat on the surface. Sherlock stares at the letter – standard paper, cheap, could come from any Hallmark or similar store, black ballpoint ink – nothing special to identify it, completely boring._

_“Fine.”_

_Sherlock picks up the letter, pulls a pocket knife from his coat and slits open the envelope in one slice. He unfolds the single sheet of paper – white paper, legal size, typed, black ink jet –and smoothes it flat. Sherlock purses his lips as he reads the two sentence letter._

_“Ah.”_

_The letter reads:_

Mr. Holmes,

I have learned you have become aware of my existence and you are coming for me. I have some work of our mutual acquaintance’s to finish but this is simply a congenial warning that when I am done, I am coming for you too.

Sebastian Moran

_Sherlock’s lips slowly climb upward into a smile. “Another game then?”_

\---------

“You sure you want to come with me? Not exactly a fun time.”

“Yes,” Mary nods her head, “it’s important. I’m supposed to support my boyfriend right?”

John shakes his head. “Sounds like we’re fifteen when you say that.”

Mary loops her arm through John’s. “Well, what would you prefer, partner?” She makes a face. “Lover?” John smiles and Mary grins. “There we are, a smile.”

“Yeah,” John smiles more and grips her arm with his opposite hand. “Sorry, I just… I usually come here alone.”

“Well, not this time.” Mary stops in front of the cemetery gate and looks over at him. She slides her hand down his arm and then threads her hand with his. She squeezes hard once. “Ready?”

John watches her for a moment, looks for any signs of annoyance or unease or reluctance. Instead Mary stares back at him calmly, her face nothing but the stable, normal, amazing woman who has begun to slowly fit perfectly into every day.

John nods. “Let’s go.”

They walk hand and hand in silence past the rows of gravestones. Finally they stop in front of the black headstone reading ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ Mary lifts the flowers she brought and holds them out for John. John takes them and puts them down right against the stone then stands up straight again. For a few minutes they stand together in front of the grave just looking.

John remembers his first date with Sarah, Sherlock ambushing them at the circus; he remembers Nadia and Sherlock pointing out all her gray hairs the first time she stopped by the flat; he remembers Jennet and the lack of dog, all his fault that time. He wonders what Sherlock would have said now about Mary. Suddenly John starts to laugh. 

Mary turns her head sharply. “What?”

John feels a tear escape but wipes it away as quick as it came and shakes his head. “Nothing, I can just hear Sherlock saying something like ‘at least she fits into your height restrictions.’”

Mary smiles slowly. “Oh, I bet Sherlock and I could have had a marvelous time.”

John snorts. “Don’t be so sure.”

“You need to tell me more about him.” John turns sharply with surprise and Mary smiles. “Really, or I’ll have to start reading the old blog posts.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh boy.”

Mary chuckles. “Oh yeah.”

“You know, I used to –” John cuts himself off and jerks his face away.

“What?”

John stares at the tree near the grave, sees Sherlock falling through the air, falling toward the ground until that horrible noise and the bike messenger slamming into John as he ran and –

“John, what?” Mary touches his arm.

John turns back to Mary and shakes his head. “Nothing, I… nothing, just.” He laughs awkwardly once. “A while back I used to think,” John shrugs, “maybe he will come back.”

“John…”

“Maybe it was just another amazing thing, another thing no one else could have done, something else fantastic.”

“Fantastically being alive again?’ Mary pauses, eyes tick to the grave then back to John. She leans forward and whispers, “Like a zombie?”

John bursts into surprised laughter, Mary grinning at him. He feels tears in his eyes and he can hardly tell if they’re from sadness or happiness. He grabs Mary to him and holds her tight for a moment, laughing into her blond hair. 

Then he pulls back. “Some people might call that insensitive.”

Mary smiles. “I know how much you cared about him, John, that’s clear and I know that in time you’ll tell me all there is to know about him. I can wait.”

John cocks his head. “And be sensitive then?”

Mary chuckles. “Yeah, and I can wait for you to open all those doors.” She taps the side of his head. “It’ll be worth it.” John swallows but he can’t think of anything to say. 

They stand a moment longer side by side in silence. Out of the corner of his eye John sees Mary pull her pack of cigarettes out of her pocket but puts it back again after only a few seconds without taking one out. John smiles and focuses on the grave - the words, the date.

Mary squeezes his hand and he looks up her. “Ready?”

John nods. “Yeah, go ahead, I’m coming.”

Mary lets go of his hand and walks back toward the entrance of the grave yard. John lingers for a moment, steps forward and touches the top of the gravestone. He glances after Mary, her skirt blowing in the light breeze as she walks away. Her hair gusts up and she reaches one hand up to slip it back into place. 

John smiles and looks down at the grave. “I really like her, Sherlock, maybe you would have too.”

Then he slips his hand off the stone and jogs to catch up with Mary.

\---------

_Sherlock dyes his hair in his hotel room sink. The shade this time is black, just a bit darker than his natural deep brown but most of his trademark curls are cut off right now so it matters little. Sherlock works methodically, watching himself in the mirror, as he covers every trace of the previous blond with the new paint. He works carefully to keep any dye off his skin but after so many times completing this same action in past hotel bathrooms Sherlock can add the task to his list of specialties._

_After using a somewhat cumbersome method of two mirrors and a lot of head ducking, Sherlock peels the plastic gloves off his hands inside out and tosses them into the sink. He drops the box and the bottle of hair dye in the sink as well. Then Sherlock knocks the top of the toilet seat down and sits to wait for the dye to set._

_Sherlock stares at the wall across from him, mind clicking into search mode – Moriarty, Moran, Texas, Cape Town, Algiers, Belgium, England – home, John, Baker street, John listening to him reason –_

_Sherlock shakes his head once and focuses on a specific crack in the wall. Sebastian Moran – personal assassin for Moriarty, tall based on jacket from Siena flat, obviously patient – waiting to come for Sherlock, organized – finishing employers work even after death, loyalty, shares some of his handler’s cheek – sending a letter, clear military history due to gun choice – John’s shot from the window, John’s dead shot on the Baskerville dog, John –_

_Sherlock sighs. “Always a road back to John.”_

_Sherlock glances down at his watch, two minutes past._

_Sherlock imagines John in the room with him, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, probably trying not to chuckle at the idea of Sherlock dying his hair._

_“You’re pretty recognizable despite the hair color, you know? Tall bastard you are.”_

_Sherlock glances at the empty bathtub. “You have to sell disguises, John; it’s not just about look.” Sherlock looks back to the crack in the wall. “People see what they want to see.”_

_Molly would tell him his hair looked lovely, she’d say any hair style he chose was lovely. Then again in those last few days Molly had seemed to change. Perhaps she would say, “It doesn’t look good this short, you know.”_

_Lestrade would only shake his head, not bothering to see past the act itself, to tired or worn out to really think. Mrs. Hudson would bemoan the loss of his curls which she loved so much._

_Sherlock closes his eyes, pushes Molly and Mrs. Hudson and memories of people back in his mind. It hardly matters what they would think, none of them are here, not even John. Sherlock opens his eyes again._

_“Sebastian Moran, you are what matters now. You are my end point.”_

_Not a team, no one teams with Moriarty – no one on his level – but someone to do the dirty work Jim disliked, an assassin, a middle man, a point man – John, a partner, a friend, Dr. John Watson._

_Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock’s eyes wander up the wall to the ceiling. John would tap his feet, grumble about the time it takes for the dye to set._

_“Like you really need to dye your hair black, it’s practically black anyway. Shouldn’t we be out chasing the murderer?”_

_“We are chasing him right now, John.” Sherlock’s eyes wander down the wall to the mirror reflecting part of the shower curtain. “I am thinking.”_

_Sherlock shakes his head again, looks down at his watch and rubs at the bridge of his nose. John is the one thing – person, friend, only friend – he can’t shuffle back to a corner of his mind. He won’t do it. However, John does prove distracting when trying to think._

_Perhaps John would have had to dye his hair too. Sherlock chuckles and glances at the bath tub. Red maybe or bleached blond just to make John frown? Even John’s frown has a charm._

_“Well, then think, Sherlock.”_

_“Then stop distracting me, John.” Sherlock almost moves to rub his hair but stops himself in time and puts his hands down on his thighs._

_He stares at the floor and maps out Sebastian Moran by way of England, Texas, guns, letters, flats, deaths, and James Moriarty._

_Twenty minutes later Sherlock picks up the contents of the sink and drops it in the bathtub. He rinses his hair out thoroughly in the sink then towels it dry. He drops the damp towel in the bathtub with the rest and then opens the bathroom window. Sherlock walks out of the bathroom and over to the smoke detector. He rises onto his toes, pulls off the cover and then takes out the battery. Throwing the battery on the bed, Sherlock takes a small bottle of kerosene out of his pack and goes back into the bathroom. He squirts a third of the bottle into the bathtub, pulls the lighter from his pocket then flicks it on and throws it into the tub._

_Sherlock easily imagines John’s groan of displeasure as the towel catches fire._

\---------

“How are things with Dr. Morstan?”

John glances up from his tea and tilts his head. “You don’t see me for months except for ten minutes to get some boxes and the violin and the first thing you ask about is my girlfriend?”

Mycroft purses his lips. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“It’s just not very you.”

Mycroft smiles and picks up his tea cup. “I suppose not.”

John watches Mycroft for a moment but when he does not ask anything else John gives in. “Things with Mary are great, how’s running England?”

Mycroft takes a sip of his tea and smiles. “At times tiring.”

John just huffs a laugh once and bites into a biscuit. “So, you going to tell me exactly why you’re here for tea?”

“My dear John, am I not allowed to simply wish to see you?”

“No.” Mycroft raises both eyebrows but John only picks up his tea cup. “When do you ever just ‘simply wish to see’ anyone?”

“You’ve decided to assume much about my personal habits.”

John takes a sip of tea. “Am I wrong?”

“Not entirely, I suppose.”

“Doing a lot of supposing over there.”

Mycroft frowns slightly. “I think my brother was a bad influence on you, John.”

“Hmm, going to have to disagree with you there.”

“Of course.”

John puts his tea down. "Alright, enough, Mycroft, what is going on?”

Mycroft clears his throat and suddenly looks, something John never thought he would see in Mycroft Holmes, embarrassed. He reaches down into his briefcase beside his chair and pulls out what appears to be a present - blue shiny paper and a white ribbon tied around it.

“Your birthday recently passed and I wanted to bring you this.” Mycroft holds out the present to John.

John takes the gift, feels like a book, and stares at Mycroft too surprised for two beats to speak. John clears his throat and finally says dumbly, “you bought me a present?”

Mycroft takes a deep sip of his tea then puts it down in the saucer on the small table beside him. He does not speak for a long moment, only stares at the mantel. Then he turns back to face John.

“With Sherlock gone and my extended family either passed on or of such far acquaintance that we only know names, you are the closest thing to family I have left, John. Though it is not normally in my nature to have many personal relationships, I would rather we remain…” he pauses and inclines his head forward, “closer than acquaintances.”

John swallows and nods twice. “All right.” He holds up the gift. “Thank you.”

Mycroft smiles. “You’re welcome.”

Mycroft stays for fifteen more minutes, half spent in silence as they both have a second cup of tea. John’s mind remains fixed on the idea of the mysterious Mycroft Holmes of unclear government connection as a surrogate older brother. 

When Mycroft leaves his phone buzzes and as he reaches the bottom of the stairs John catches a few words from Mycroft.

“...will be fine? Good. Thank you for informing me, Molly.”

\---------

_Sherlock slides into the booth at the back of the semi-crowded Paris cafe and takes the newspaper out of the hands of the man already sitting at the table. He folds it up and puts it down on the table top._

_“I received your letter.”_

_The man puts down his cup of coffee. “Sherlock Holmes.”_

_“Sebastian Moran.”_

_“My friends call me Seb.” Dark brown skin, taller than Sherlock, average build but certainly not fat, hair receding but not to be unflattering, three days of stubble, good teeth – most would call him an attractive man. “But I don’t think we’re friends, are we?”_

_“Not in the slightest, did dear Jim call you Seb?” Sherlock elongates the E in the last word._

_Sebastian’s expression doesn’t change at mention of Jim then he picks up his coffee. “Maybe.”_

_“Maybe he just told you where to point the rifle?”_

_“How’d you find me?” Sebastian asks changing the subject, but before Sherlock can open his mouth he shakes his head. “Never mind, don’t tell me. You’d probably like that too much, wouldn’t you?”_

_Sherlock only smiles. “Here we are now, finally face to face.”_

_“I would kill you right here,” Sebastian says with a straight face but with none of Sherlock’s false congeniality. “Don’t think these people mean anything to me.”_

_“Please, of course they do. All of your kills are clean and expert and at a distance. Close up killing is not your usual plus why tarnish your former employer’s reputation with such a sloppy kill?”_

_“Maybe not.”_

_“I have gone through quite a lot of Mr. Moriarty’s former clients; all of them are in jail now, a few not so lucky as that. You are the final strand in the web. With you behind bars the few left will crumble quickly.”_

_“You think so?”_

_“Don’t underestimate me.”_

_“Oh, I certainly don’t, Mr. Holmes. You were all Jim talked about.” Sebastian gulps down some of his coffee. “I’ve probably heard more about you than you’d like.”_

_“Doubtful.”_

_Sebastian chuckles. “He did say you had a problem with boasting.” Sebastian emphasizes the last word._

_Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps but not this time. Now it’s just you getting what you deserve.”_

_Sebastian puts down his mug. “Say you’re right, what’s your plan? We’re not in London; you’re not with the police.”_

_“Who says I’m not?”_

_“You wouldn’t have come in here alone.”_

_“Wrong.” Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Perhaps I just wanted to talk to you first before giving the police a signal.”_

_Sebastian raises his eyebrows and nods twice. “All right, maybe, but if you’ve got a gun on you how are going to give that signal?”_

_“Your rifle is in the bag under the table and your handgun is in the back of your trousers which you obviously have not reached for.”_

_Suddenly Sherlock hears a click under the table where Sebastian’s other hand is. Sherlock slowly raises an eyebrow and Sebastian smiles. “You forgot the gun in my lap.”_

_Sherlock purses his lips. “Clearly.”_

_Sebastian reaches across the table and takes Sherlock’s phone. “Shall we take a walk? Out the back I think.”_

_Sherlock stands up slowly and Sebastian pulls Sherlock to his side of the table by his pea coat. Sherlock frowns as Sebastian presses his gun against Sherlock’s stomach. Sebastian picks his bag up off the floor then stands up._

_“Out we go.”_

_In the alley behind the cafe Sebastian puts his bag on the ground. “Well, I had a few more things to do first but since you came and found me looks like we do this now.”_

_“Or you could give up and turn yourself in. You fought for your country once; there must be some sense of loyalty to the crown under all that passé.”_

_Sebastian shrugs once. “Hmm, maybe there was but it’s been awhile since the war and I got a new purpose after that.”_

_“Moriarty.”_

_“The money helped too.”_

_“Oh, I’m sure it would.”_

_Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes tick over Sebastian’s shoulder as if looking at someone. Sebastian’s hand twitches, his eyes flick to the side, and Sherlock takes his opening. He lunges forward and grabs for the gun. He gets his hand around Sebastian’s at the same time that the other man fires. For one second Sherlock thinks the shot missed then his left shoulder explodes with fire. Sherlock’s hand falls off the gun and he stumbles against the wall. Sebastian takes a large step back, shouts come from the street, and he growls._

_“Next time.” Then he grabs his bag from the ground and rushes away into the dark of the alley._

_Sherlock watches Sebastian go as he slowly slides down the wall, one hand held against his wound already wet with blood. When Sherlock finally reaches the ground he begins to laugh._

_“Sir?” A French police officer kneels down in front of Sherlock and others begin to appear behind her. “Monsieur Hudson, monsieur!”_

_Sherlock keeps laughing and shakes his head at the young woman. “Oh, pardon, too late this time.”_

_“Mon dieu, You are shot!”_

_“Oh, yes, astute assessment; I should probably go to a hospital.”_

_As Sherlock loses consciousness he thinks Sebastian somewhat reminds him of John._

_In the hospital, when Sherlock wakes up, they hand him a phone receiver._

_“What?” Sherlock barks groggily._

_“Sherlock!” It is Molly. “Are you alright? They said you were shot?”_

_“Why are you on this phone?”_

_“The hospital called me; they said I was the only number programmed in your mobile.”_

_“He left my mobile...” Sherlock mutters. “Interesting.”_

_“Sherlock! You were shot.” Molly turns on what she must think is her stern voice. “This is enough! You have to come home.”_

_“I can’t, Molly.”_

_“I don’t care if - if you think you’re dead here or what, Sherlock you...” she huffs. “Haven’t you done enough?”_

_“No.” Sherlock hangs up._

\--------

John and Mary sit side by side on the couch, Mary’s feet on the empty coffee table, both holding paperbacks in their hands – Mary’s “David Copperfield” and John’s “Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead.”

“How’s your book?” Mary asks without looking up.

“Crap, how’s yours?”

“I’ve read it three times before.”

They both peer up at each other to the side and begin to giggle. 

Mary points at his book. “Where did you find that anyway?”

John shrugs. “I searched Indiana Jones on Amazon on a whim. It was only four pound.”

Mary nods then closes her book. She leans over her legs and puts it down on the table. Then she leans back against the couch again and crosses her arms.

“How about you tell me a story instead?”

John shrugs. “Like what?”

“One of your cases with Sherlock.”

“I’ve told you about Sherlock.” John shakes his head and closes his book. “You tell me about your treks around South America, come on.”

“I did learn to salsa in La Paz, but we’re on you right now.” Mary gives him a look. “You’ve told me about Sherlock, yeah, a few of the big cases but I mean your adventures, something more. It is your turn.”

“They’re on the blo-”

“Oh my god, really? Read my blog?” She raises her eyebrows. “Come on, it’s me.” She smiles. “Maybe I like to hear your talk.”

“Did I tell you he locked me in a secret government lab thinking he’d dosed me with chemical laced sugar to see the reactions on an ‘average’ mind once?”

“What!?” Mary shouts.

John chuckles. “No, no, it really wasn’t - well, I was angry at the time - but no real harm.”

She tilts her head, voice incredulous. “Uh huh, no real harm.”

John smiles. “There were... we had a lot of good cases. Once there was a girl who looked like suicide, Sherlock proved it was murder by the heel of her shoes and her shampoo type. There was this totally idiotic one with a redheaded man and an internet business scheme. Another time it looked like a man murdered his father by this lake but all Sherlock had to do was tromp around the grass, find a cigar butt and foot prints and eventually he had the son cleared. Not to mention there was a thing with a neighbor’s daughter too, it was like being in a trash romance novel.”

Mary laughs and sits up straight. “One with a long haired man on the cover?” John holds up his two fingers an inch apart and grins. Mary nods her head. “Go on.”

John smiles and rests his head against the back of the couch. “The first time I met Sherlock...” John’s eyes tick slightly to the side, just past Mary to a lab in Barts years ago. “The first time I met Sherlock he asked me ‘Afghanistan or Iraq.’ He knew my sister drank, knew she’d split up with her wife, knew about my limp at the time, everything. I’d never met anyone so fascinating, just drew me in like a magnet or some other metaphor. Just when I thought I’d reached the limit, that he couldn’t top it or amaze me again.” John claps his hands together. “There it was, never stopped. I mean,” John looks back to Mary, “he could be a total idiot too. Things we all know, simple things would just fly right over his head. I had to fix many a conversation... so, I guess, well I hope - no I know, he... needed me too, he needed me to keep him down in reality.”

Mary touches his temple as John trails off and he blinks, brings her back into focus. She smiles slowly and drops her hand. “Tell me more.”

John nods - happy, safe, not hurting at the mention of Sherlock’s name - and squeezes Mary’s hand. “All right, want to hear about Irene or as Sherlock called her 'The Woman?'”

\--------

_Sherlock sits, legs crossed, in the office of the chief of police in some insignificant city in Sri Lanka – in fairness Chilaw is not so completely insignificant as Gandhi visited once but Sherlock finds almost everywhere Sebastian Moran currently is not to be insignificant. Frown firmly in place, Sherlock stares at the desk – light bulb nearly finished in the lamp – and waits. Sherlock’s shoulder itches, not much longer until the bandage could be removed. Every time he feels an ache or twists it the wrong way Sherlock thinks of John, wonders how similar their wounds are, wants to pull John’s shirt off to compare._

_Sherlock sighs and glances at his watch though he knows only nine minutes have passed since he last looked._

_“Sir?” Sherlock turns to the woman in the doorway. “Is Gunawardena not back yet?”_

_Sherlock frowns even further though one would think this impossible. “Obviously not or I would not be sitting here, would I?”_

_Her jaw tenses but she only nods. “Of course, sir.”_

_She disappears from the doorway and Sherlock returns his gaze to the desk._

_Sherlock knows Sebastian Moran is the last link, the last big part he needs to remove before James Moriarty’s legacy crumbles. As long as Moran is around to finish scores or continue with hits or follow up with clients that need one last bit of advice in their crime then Sherlock’s work continues. Almost two years have passed since Sherlock’s death and he means to go home before year three hits. Sebastian Moran cannot be that difficult of a quarry, Sherlock refuses to allow it._

_With Jim everything had been a game but with Sebastian now it’s a chase. Sebastian may not be as clever as Jim but Jim had always come to Sherlock, initiated, taunted him. Sebastian runs, Sebastian hides, in short Sebastian acts like a normal criminal with half a brain. He does not engage Sherlock directly until he is ready – to him crime is a profession not a game or a distraction or a test or whatever insane side of the fence Jim chose that day. While Jim wanted any and all interaction with Sherlock, Sebastian just wants the kills. So tracking Sebastian actually takes time, not the best of Sherlock’s brain power just plane trips and train rides and actual detective work, following a trail until Sherlock catches up because Sebastian does not stay still._

_It is maddening._

_Sherlock taps his foot, thinks about a flat in London, a man sitting in a chair beside a fire grate across from an empty chair just waiting to be filled again. All chases ends and Sherlock intends to return home at the end of this one._

_“Sir.” The woman pokes her head in the door again. “He is back with your man.”_

_Sherlock turns his head at this and stands up. “Good.”_

_Sherlock follows her out into the hall, twists right then left until they come upon the chief followed by two police officers with a man in handcuffs in between them. They all stop together in the middle of the hall._

_“So, you were correct after all,” Chief Gunawardena says with only slight annoyance, “I suppose you –“_

_“Would like to speak with him?” Sherlock interrupts. “Yes, I would.”_

_The Chief turns to the men behind him and jerks his head toward one of the interview suites. The two officers tug their captive’s arms, pulling him forward._

_“Who are…” the man mutters as he walks by Sherlock._

_“I am the man who made sure you were caught.” Sherlock walks backward, quickly getting ahead of the trio. “And I am the man you are going to talk to now if you wish to ensure Sebastian Moran does not decide to silence you permanently. I hear he likes to keep things tidy when it comes to contacts who have met him more than once.” Sherlock shrugs slowly and makes a face. “Or perhaps who have met him at all. Maybe he is getting more secretive now that his primary employer is dead.”_

_The man begins breathing faster. “You… you can’t… will he…”_

_Sherlock chuckles but without humor. “Wait and see or talk to me.”_

_They reach the suite and the officers take the man inside, pushing him into a chair and securing his handcuffs to the table. Sherlock stands in the door for a moment and imagines John standing just behind him, close enough to feel his breath._

_“Almost done, Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock fists his hands at his sides, clenches his teeth – this has to be it, this has to be the last thread to follow. Sherlock must believe he will go home, finish this crusade, and end up back where he belongs, back with whom he belongs._

_“Almost,” Sherlock whispers to himself then walks inside and sits down. After a moment of silence, Sherlock lays his hands flat on the table and does not bother to control his sneer. "Tell me about him."_

_The man swallows hard. "What do you want to know?"_

_"Everything."_

\--------

The clock on the wall says 12:15 and most of the party goers left hours ago. One of Mary’s fellow English department coworkers sleeps slumped over in a chair by the empty dessert table. 

The music plays softer now, at least as far as John can tell. Mary sways slowly with him to the tune, one arm around his back and the other on his chest. He turns them in a circle, dips her smoothly and she laughs until he pulls her up again. She tries to steal the lead, pulling him in a little spin until she relaxes and presses her cheek against his. They dance closer, chest to chest, and she hums random notes of the song in her throat, buzzing against his.

John closes his eyes, smells the flowery shampoo in her hair, feels the seam in the back of her dress, feels her lips resting on the skin of his neck, her breath slow and even – her eyes he sees behind his whenever they close, her hand in his with fingers twisted tight together – her finger tips pressing dots through the fabric of his suit to his skin, onto his heart and onto his soul, a touch he never wants to lose.

“I love you,” John says.

Mary lets out a slow sigh as if she’s been holding it for months. “I love you too, John.”

\-------

_Sherlock sits on the tiny porch of his fourth floor hotel in Barcelona. A half smoked cigarette burns down slowly between his two fingers, ash every so often floating off into the air. Snippets of Spanish rise up from the streets below, a small chorus of drunken singers sounding far more beautiful than they should. Sherlock stares up at the stars, clearer and more visible here than at home._

_He thinks about John walking beside him down a London alley, looking up at the starts together; John running through the woods calling his name; John standing behind him as Sherlock plays the violin to the window; John grabbing his hand to keep him from harm’s way; John’s smile, John’s laugh, John’s stupid typing, John’s obsession with milk and jam and having enough bread at all times, John’s face when they lock eyes, the way John says ‘fantastic,’ ‘amazing,’ the way he says ‘Sherlock.’_

_The cigarette suddenly falls from Sherlock's hand onto the cement. He pulls up his hands and lightly touches his lips. “Oh…”_

_Sherlock is in love with John._


	3. Year 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants to spend the rest of his life with her, every day and night, every up and down, every fight and every joy, stupid things and exciting things. He wants to see how far this joy can go because nothing since Sherlock Holmes has felt so right in his life – so perfect – as Mary Morstan.
> 
> _Sherlock has one thing left to do, one person left in this long line of plots and crimes. He can see the horizon now and the one thing he wants waiting there. Sherlock is not asking John to love him, no, just stay with him forever._

"Why don't you move in with me?"

Mary pauses with her sandwich half way up to her mouth. "What?"

"Well, I've got the room and it's pretty ridiculous we don't live together already."

"I wouldn't say ridiculous but your point is made."

John chuckles. "You sounded like Sherlock there."

"Is that good thing or a bad thing?" John only raises his eyebrows at her. Mary finally takes a bite of her sandwich and shrugs. "Hmm, move in to Baker Street or somewhere new?"

"Well, I..." John hadn't even thought of moving out of Baker Street. "I was thinking Baker Street. The rent from Mrs. Hudson... well I'm actually paying -"

Mary laughs. "Relax, John, I know how attached you are to that place." She purses her lips. "My lease is up in a month in a half." She crinkles her nose in that adorable way she does when she feels a bit adventurous. "Let's do it!"

"All right!" John replies with delight.

She takes another bite of her sandwich and points at him "Going to need to do some remodeling though."

John licks his lip. "What now?"

Mary moves all her things in the next weekend, the only furniture coming with her being a pair of side tables which instantly replace the yard sale table currently beside John's queen size bed. She also brings a cherry wood dresser which easily fits beside John's in the bedroom.

"Wouldn't we want the bedroom down stai-"

"That was Sher -"

"No, yeah, you're right. Upstairs is good."

Within about four hours all of Mary's personal possessions fill the flat – clothes in John's closet, books into all the empty spaces in the numerous book cases – every play ever written by Oscar Wilde, even a set of dishes for the kitchen; a pair of rain boots appear in the corner and now the bathroom contains a whole new set of hair products John was previously unaware Mary used.

"Just because your hair stays flat all the time!" She gives him the 'I'm angry' eyebrows and John clamps down the chuckle in this throat. She sighs and smirks. "I don't use them every day so you can keep that smile."

John nods sagely then wiggles his eyebrows at her until she smacks him on the shoulder and kisses him into the wall. "Prat."

"Gorgeous woman."

"Still a prat."

"I love you."

She ‘hmms’ and knocks his toothpaste onto the floor as she pulls him against her. "Oh, you pull out those big guns doctor."

John wraps his arms around her, hand gripping her arse. "I will, doctor."

Mary laughs and kisses him hard. "I love you too."

Down in the living room, Mary walks around touching things, makes small noises in the back of her throat and John sees the gears of 'sudden interior designer' running full tilt. Mary touches the curtains and chuckles to herself, dances her hand over the chairs by the fireplace and stops by the mantel.

"Lace curtains and you keep a skull?"

John opens his mouth and closes it. Mary's smile broadens. John clears his throat. "I never really thought about the curtains, actually."

"Oh, well then." She looks at the skull and taps the top of it with her finger nails.

John frowns. "Uh... memories."

Mary snorts and walks slowly down the length of the mantel. "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, John?"

John cocks his head. "Can you recite the whole soliloquy?"

Mary shrugs. "Maybe."

Mary takes her time, pulls out catalogs, listens to John's ideas. They go through colors – brown really does seem like the best idea because knowing them someone will spill tea. Mary has a thing for cream colors and if the fabric is washable, or at least something they can spray it, then all right. They both agree the lace curtains are ridiculous but John lets Mary have free reign on that one.

"The shelves in the wall obviously stay because we are not really building anything, right, just buying."

Mary salutes him. "Aye, aye."

They turn Sherlock's old room into a study which seems appropriate. They move two books shelves in and Mary buys two more. The shelves fill up with books, mostly classics like Melville or Poe, Mary had put in storage before. Once again John only fills a shelf and a half. Mary fills two whole bookcases on her own with boxes of files and old class notes while John's mementos take up the remaining shelf space. John would call the office a 'man cave' but Mary ends up using it more than him to grade papers and work on lectures. John imagines Sherlock would approve of his old space continuing as the center of intelligence and research in their flat.

Though the flat changes slowly, the wallpaper leaving and furniture switching, for some reason John only feels relief. The memories do not mean less because the scenery changes. John can keep the past and create the future all in one.

"Welcome home, Mary Morstan." 

She kisses his cheek. "Our home."

\---------

_Sherlock rides on the train heading toward Poland, Warsaw specifically. At the moment no one sits beside him, probably due to his bag resting in the other seat. He stares out the window at the country passing by, fields and trees. Sebastian is not in Poland but Sebastian seems to have decided to dig a hole and hide in it._

_“Can’t just be done with it?” Sherlock mutters._

_Isn’t Sebastian just as tired as Sherlock? Wouldn’t he want to end things just as much? Perhaps not; Sebastian’s employer – his purpose – is dead now and keeping it alive as long as possible must be his goal. As long as Sherlock chases him then perhaps Sebastian’s goal is met. But Sherlock cannot stop chasing, not until the traces of Jim Moriarty are completely eradicated, not until he knows it is safe for his friends – for John – for the people he cares about to bring himself back to life._

_“Not until you are finished…” Sherlock rests his head against the glass, counts two minor cracks in the very edges of the glass._

_Recently when Sherlock travels – hours on a train or bus or plane or once even a boat – he thinks about ‘what ifs.’ What if Jim did not shoot himself? What if Lestrade fought harder to prove Sherlock innocent? What if Sherlock simply shot the bomb at the pool and the rest never happened? But mostly he thinks, what if John had come too?_

_John's voice in the phone. “Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”_

_“No, John, I have to die.”_

_“What?”_

_“I have to die and then we have work to do.”_

_Could he have found a way to tell John? No, I’m not really dying and, yes, it’s all Moriarty. Could they have gone together? Died, reborn, met John, left England, chased the thread, destroyed the legacy, him and John together. The moment he died could he have found a way to bring John too? Sent Molly? Sent a message? Something? Was it really so dangerous?_

_“It was,” Sherlock fists his hand, “of course it was, not worth the risk.”_

_Then the alternate question, would John have left with him? Too big for John? Too much of a change, of a risk? Too wild, crazy, mad? No. Sherlock knows John would have said ‘yes.’_

_Sherlock sighs and pulls his head up from the glass. He stares at the seat in front of him – red, maroon, polyester, knitted, at least two years old, seam starting to come undone on bottom left. His eyes tick to the floor but pull away again before he can sour his mood further with the disgusting state of that Petri dish. Sherlock turns instead to his bag on the empty seat._

_“Poland, Sherlock?” John would sigh, lean his head back against the seat, close his eyes once before speaking again. “This cannot be the only lead. I think going back to England….”_

_Sherlock chuckles to himself. If John came that would be the mantra, just like the requests for Sherlock to show more empathy, more patience for the common man; John would continually suggest returning home._

_“How much further can it go? How much further can we go?”_

_If John had come perhaps it would be done by now. Having John with him could have focused his mind more, illuminated solutions, pushed him down paths just off his radar because though John is just an ordinary man, he is Sherlock’s ordinary man – the one man perfectly in tuned and matched for Sherlock's intellect. If John had come how much faster, better, could this have all gone?_

_Sherlock breathes in slowly and looks out the window again. He so rarely experiences doubt or questions his past decisions – why start now, why question now? He must stay the course of the choice he made._

_Yet Sherlock still thinks at the back of his mind, a small loop that keeps playing, ‘I need John.’_

\---------

“You have got to be joking.”

“John, she –“

“How long, really how long? Of course we have a couch but you’ve told me before how your sister can – “

“Exactly,” Mary points at him, “she is my sister and I –“

“And this is my home too!”

“I said a few weeks, not forever!”

John scoffs. “It’s the weeks that bothers me. Days I could handle but –“

“John, our parents can be –“

“I know how your parents can be; I have met them. Not all that bad actually.”

Mary rolls her eyes. “Oh yes, of course, the outsider knows so well.”

John stops, puts his hands on his hips and has to breathe through his nose. “Not such an outsider, am I?”

“The point is that she lost her flat, she was with them, and she just needs someone to stay with for a little while until –“

“Until what? Until your parents take her back? You’ve said it yourself before, she hasn’t held a job longer than four months in her adult life, she bounces around, she –“

“Because you’ve never bailed out your sister.”

John puts a finger to his lips and grits his teeth. “We’re not talking about Harry.”

“But you’d do the same.” Mary claps her hands. “If it were you –“

John shakes his head. “No, no I wouldn’t because I have before and I know how that goes. Your sister, you don’t know , you –“

“She is my younger sister! Don’t you think you can –“

“Your youngest sister does just fine –“

“You know she still gets money from –“

“Exactly, so how does that look for –“

“Oh bullocks, John,” Mary throws her hand up in the air. “She’s twenty; she’s supposed to still be dependent on mum and dad!”

“That’s not what I meant!” John growls. “The point is Diane is older than that and look at her. Lacy is doing better at twenty than –“

“Oh, yes, because we all have it together at the same time!"

"Better than she is doing -"

Mary scoffs loudly and plows right over John. "Oh yes, everyone’s life runs so smoothly and perfectly from baby to adult, fifteen to thirty all in a nice line upward.” She flings a hand at him in a condescending gesture. “I mean look at you, you came back from Afghanistan and you were just so fine!”

John’s mouth drops open and he takes a step back. “Mary…”

Mary pulls her hands up to her mouth in surprise. “Oh my god, John, I… I didn’t… I didn’t mean…”

John turns and walks out of the living room, back into their office, and shuts the door behind him. John sits down in one of the chairs which used to be beside the fireplace just before his legs start shaking. He grips the arm of the chair and pushes his lips hard together. Breathing in and out once, John realizes absently he is sitting in Sherlock’s chair.

Ten minutes later Mary knocks on the door. “John?” She opens the door a crack and peeks in. “Hi.”

John's eyes tick over to her. “Hi.”

Mary steps in and closes the door behind her. She leans back against the door and tilts her head. “So, I’m a shit.”

John laughs despite himself and nods. “Uh, maybe.”

Mary raises both eyebrows and nods back. “Yeah.” She walks over and sits in the chair across from him against the wall. “Look, I’m sorry John, I went too far.”

“You didn’t mean to say it.”

“It should never have occurred to me to say.”

John reaches out and takes her hand. “It’s all right.”

Mary shakes her head. “I just want you to know that I don’t think that you – I mean, from what you’ve told me about after and –“

“Mary, I said it’s fine.”

“I don’t want it to be just fine,” Mary snaps and lets go of his hand. “I want to apologize.”

John clears his throat. “All right then.”

Mary nods and looks him in the eye. “John, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” John leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. “You know I was fighting too though, right?”

Mary chuckles. “Perhaps we can just blame family for all of that?”

“I have no problem with that idea.”

Mary leans forward, John following, and they kiss quickly, Mary briefly cupping John’s cheek.

“Diane is going to stay for a few days though.”

John sighs and leans back again. “Fine.”

Mary grins at him. “If it gets to be a week I’ll be sure to kick her out myself.”

John scoffs. “Oh, I can’t wait.”

“Don’t worry,” Mary grins. “I’ll just threaten her with us having sex with the door open.”

John laughs. “I’ll be glad to help with that idea.”

\---------

_Sherlock stands in front of the door on the inside of his hotel room. He knew someone was following him through the hotel lobby, from the street outside, from the cyber café, from the alley, for forty-two minutes ago. The individual – shorter stature, long hair, dirty blond so it’s almost brown, eyes unclear, chewed finger nails, boots not heels, shoulder bag, under forty, used to running – lost Sherlock in the hotel restaurant, Sherlock finally bothering to shake the incessant tail._

_However, apparently, she decided to keep up the chase. The light coming in under the door changes and Sherlock hears a quiet click. Sherlock’s lip twitches and he steps forward. Sherlock opens the door swiftly and points a gun into the face of the woman kneeling on the floor, lock pick in hand._

_Her eyes slowly creep up, widen at the gun, and then to his face. “Hello…”_

_“Lucky this hotel has yet to advance to keycards but not so lucky is your ineptitude at following someone without notice.”_

_“In my defense I didn’t think you were up here.”_

_“Clearly.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “But you are not here to rob me.”_

_“No.”_

_“Or kill me.”_

_“No!”_

_Sherlock frowns. “Was your plan just to wait?”_

_She clears her throat and finally lowers her hands. “Um, yes.”_

_Sherlock groans. “Oh no, you were going to sit in the chair in the corner and wait in the dark until I came back.”_

_She clears her throat a second time. “You have to admit, it’s a good entrance.”_

_“I believe you mean tactic and, no, it isn’t; it is overdone.”_

_“May I stand up now?”_

_“Will you run when you do?” Sherlock asks, cocking his head._

_“No.”_

_Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “As expected.”_

_He then backs up a step so the gun isn’t centimeters from her nose. She stands up slowly, putting the lock pick back into the small black case in her left hand and slips it into her pack. Her eyes flick to the room behind him then down the hall._

_Sherlock frowns. “Fine.”_

_He steps to the side so she can enter the hotel room but he does not reengage the safety on the gun. He closes the door behind her as she crosses the room and sits in the very chair they just mentioned. Sherlock rolls his eyes and lets the gun fall to his side. He takes two steps to the left and perches on the edge of the bed._

_The woman clutches the bag in her lap like some sort of life line and pulls herself up as tall as she can. “So, Mr. Holmes, I –“_

_“Were one of James Moriarty’s clients.”_

_“Yes –“_

_“Not murder though.”_

_“No, I –“_

_“Embezzlement.”_

_Her mouth falls open. “How did you…”_

_“Your shoes are brand new, as are your earrings but your jacket is not, older by about two years and definitely a class below what your shoes are so you’ve come into money but you’re obviously not used to it yet.”_

_“I –“_

_“On your jacket pocket is a distinct indentation, as if from a clip one would have with an ID badge – obviously years of using the same good suit for work. Your bag is from the gift shop of a museum, logo on the bottom corner, small but discernible nor is the bag brand new. Obviously a prosperous museum as the bag is leather so it has a section just for luxury items. So, it is a museum which attempts to attract a richer cliental, it has bigger donors, more money to shift around or, in your case, shift into one’s own pocket.”_

_She breathes in once and grips the edges of her bag. “Some of that feels like you’re reaching.”_

_Sherlock rolls his eyes. “But am I wrong? No.”_

_She chews her lip. “No.”_

_“Well then.”_

_“I’m Adrienne Mar –“_

_“Don’t care.” Sherlock waves a hand in between them. “Why are you here? You obviously do not desire to be arrested.”_

_“No!” Adrienne gasps and nearly drops her bag._

_Sherlock cocks his head. “And how exactly did you find me or even know to do so?”_

_“I saw you in the paper.”_

_This stops Sherlock and his lips twitch. “Oh?”_

_“Another client, like me, embezzlement. You…” She smiles as if embarrassed. “You helped get him arrested in Lisbon. There was a photograph of the arrest, the officers, and you were in the very back, just barely in the picture but –“_

_“Yes.” Sherlock frowns remembering the arrest, the cameras, leaving as quickly as he could. “That was four months ago.”_

_She shrugs. “Well, you are hard to find. I had to ask a lot of people. And I can’t exactly do it in the open, can I?”_

_Sherlock puts the gun, still in his hand, down on the bed. He leans forward and props one elbow up on his knee. He rests his chin on his palm and watches her. “Why are you here?”_

_“I want to help you.”_

_Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Help me?”_

_“You are after Sebastian Moran, aren’t you?”_

_Sherlock sits still as stone. “What is it you want to tell me, Adrienne?”_

_She swallows and her bag slips slowly off her lap to rest at her feet. “He’s… I think he’ll kill me. I know he’s killed others, people who benefited from… from Moriarty. I don’t know who he decides to remove, who he doesn’t. With Moriarty gone it’s a jumble and I know I’m not very important but maybe that’s the whole problem!”_

_“What do you have to tell me?”_

_“It’s a network right? Sort of but there are levels and I’m on the bottom and I don’t know if that makes me expendable or not important but…” She breathes in once to calm herself. “I am not a hardened criminal and he scares me, I can’t help it.”_

_“What do you,” Sherlock repeats again, slowly, enunciating each word, “have to tell me?”_

_Her jaw clenches. “In March Sebastian Moran will be in Prague. You can catch him.”_

_Sherlock sits up straight and smiles, ‘happy birthday John.’_

\--------

“Why did we decide to go to Scotland in the winter, again?”

John pulls Mary close to him, touching their red noses together. “Highlands covered in snow?”

“Hmm,” she nods, “I hate you.”

John chuckles. “Nope, you don’t.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Not at all.”

She laughs. “No, not right now and, yes, before you say it, it is beautiful.” She leans away from him and waves an arm to indicate the rolling green splattered with four day old snow to their left. “You could just drive around looking and count it as a good holiday.”

“You drive at least,” John says with a grin.

“Yeah, you need to work on that.”

John shrugs. “But you’re so good at it.”

“Hmm, one of my many talents.” She kisses him. “So lunch or do you want to look for ridiculous souvenirs in this… what is the name of this town?”

John frowns. “I think I broke the map”

Mary snorts loudly. "We can call it ‘highland town two.’"

"Are we only on two?"

"Hmm, they do start to run together a bit in the country."

John makes a mock serious face. “Well, next time we’ll stop at a castle, if we could possibly find one.”

“There’s one up the hill.”

They both giggle then make shushing noises at each other. Mary kisses John again until she suddenly scoops up some snow off the pub table beside her and mashes it in John’s face.

John jumps away from her and shakes his head, snow falling. “Oh god, no, that’s not fair!” John gropes for snow on the table. “Evil woman.”

“Oh no!” She shouts and runs down the street. “You’ll have to catch me!”

John drops his hands as she runs off and plants his feet. “No!”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

“I’m not running. It’s a holiday!”

She laughs. “But what if I slip and fall on the ice looking back for you?” Mary says over her shoulder, still scampering on. “It would be all your fault then.”

“Your tactics will not work on me.” John waves his hands. “I stand firm.”

“To plot your revenge later?” Mary shouts again, nearly running into someone.

John bites back a laugh then shouts, “Yep!”

Mary stops about five buildings down the street and pulls out her phone. John's buzzes a moment later and he clicks it on.

“I just saw a shop,” Mary says. “Get us a table and I’ll be right there, okay?”

John snorts. “What is it, shoes or Oscar Wilde?”

“You’ll see when I get back. Try for a booth, yeah?”

John nods at her in the distance and she waves a hand back at him before turning down a side street. He shakes his head and slips his mobile back into his pocket. John looks up at the pub beside him. He peers in glass window of the door, darker but still cheery with a few patrons at tables and one at the bar. John turns the opposite way to gaze down the street. A knot of people pass slowly in front of the various store fronts, might be part of some bus tour by the look of it.

Suddenly, John notices across the street from the tour a figure, tall with curly dark hair and a navy blue pea coat. He turns to profile and John’s heart stops.

“Sherlock…”

John closes his eyes hard and breathes through his nose. He swallows in an attempt to push the sudden knot down, to stop the feeling of choking on clear air. He puts a hand to his head and counts, one, two, three, four, five. John opens his eyes again. The figure is gone, just the two dozen tourists and a few couples with grocery bags - no curly hair, no distinct profile, nothing. John stares for two more minutes at the spot but nothing happens, no tall man reappears.

“Okay.” John cracks his knuckles and nods his head. He stares at the ground until his breathing feels sufficiently normal then turns to the pub beside him. “Okay, right.” John walks inside and asks for a table for two.

\---------

_Sherlock crouches on the ground behind a red Prius – it seems ironic for absolutely no reason – and breathes heavily, more panic than he’s felt in two years._

_It was John. The man standing down the street, within sight, within running distance, close enough to see out of the corner of his eye as he turned his head was John. The man standing in front of the pub wrapped up in black scarf and a new green jacket and brown boots, standing alone, standing in the snow and the sun was John Watson. Sherlock saw for one moment, just before John closed his eyes, his own name on John’s lips._

_Sherlock’s knees shake from the strain of his position so he lets them give out and sits on the ground. He leans back against the car and props his arms up on his knees. He breathes in and out, stares at the tires of the car next to the Prius – new, well cared for – and waits. Sherlock clasps his gloved hands together and shakes his head._

_“Ridiculous, stupid.” What could John even be doing in Scotland? “Completely out of character.” Or is it really? Why wouldn’t John go on holiday? “Why here?”_

_Sherlock does not believe in fate or God but he also does not believe in chance._

_After fifteen minutes Sherlock slowly stands up, peering over the hood of the car before standing up straight. John no longer stands outside the pub, likely inside now ordering lunch and a brew. Sherlock looks at the heavy door of the pub for a moment then turns and heads away down an alley between buildings._

_Sherlock picks a pub furthest away from his ‘duck and cover’ experience to meet his contact._

_“Should be here in an hour,” the small, ill dressed man slides a photo across the table. “He always wears that same coat, right sight it is but that there’s him.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes tick up from the photo. “One hour?”_

_“Yep, always likes to come in for an afternoon brew.” The man grins. “I suggested this be the place for him today.”_

_“Then you had better leave.” Sherlock holds up some bills folded in half between two fingers._

_The man stares at Sherlock for a moment then snatches the money and leaves without another word. Sherlock orders a coffee and chips, which he does not eat, and waits._

_Four hours later Sherlock follows the drunken figure of William Hort, swaying down the street, occasionally slipping in the snow. When William turns down an alley Sherlock doubles his speed and whips into the alley right behind William. William turns, knife in hand, as soon as Sherlock appears. Sherlock ducks, just as expected, so William slashes his knife against the wall. He cries out with surprise and the pain of hitting the wall. Sherlock jerks up again and grabs William by the back of the neck and slams his head into the wall. William bounces, hits the other wall with his back and sides down. He puts a hand to the ground, the other to the bleeding gash on his head._

_“What do you want?” He growls._

_Sherlock chuckles. “Oh, not one of the particularly bright ones, are you?”_

_William shakes his head, eyes still clearly blurry and disoriented. “What do you mean?”_

_“You should know what I mean, about five dead due to your handwork after some consulting.”_

_“How did…”_

_“And recently you’ve been trying it on your own, haven’t you? Took everything you learned and thought you could manage more without paying the fee. Add two more bodies to your count?” Sherlock sneers. “Got a bit sloppier though, didn’t you?”_

_The man starts to shrink away. “Are you Moriarty?”_

_Sherlock laughs again. “Does news not travel to Scotland? No wonder I’ve left it until now. No, I am not. I am his destroyer.”_

_William frowns. “You don’t look like a cop.”_

_“And why would I?”_

_“Right then.”_

_Suddenly William jerks up, grabbing the knife by Sherlock's feet, and heaves himself at Sherlock. Sherlock jumps backward, misses the knife aimed at his face and grabs William’s arm. William tries to elbow Sherlock in the face but they both end up staggering into the wall instead. William swings his other arm around, hitting Sherlock with a messy punch to the chest. Sherlock stumbles back a step and William uses the chance to pull his knife arm free from Sherlock’s hands. He lunges but Sherlock dodges so William tries to change his aim half way, curving the knife around. As Sherlock swings around William he grabs William’s hand with the knife and as they both turn the knife sinks into William’s stomach._

_“No…” William gasps out as the knife plunges up to the handle, both their hands around it._

_Sherlock’s eyes tick down to the wound then up again to William’s face. “While normally I do hold to bringing criminals such as yourself to the justice of the law.” Sherlock lets go of the knife and William falls back against the wall, his own hand still clutched around the handle. “Just now, the sooner I leave this city the better.”_

_“I… I can’t…”_

_“No, you can’t, can you?”_

_Sherlock watches until William slides all the way down the wall and his hand falls limp at his side. Sherlock frowns, checks his gloves for any blood then turns and walks away down the alley. He imagines if Jim were here he would be smiling._

_When Sherlock reaches the mouth of the alley he stands for a moment in the dim, stars showing up in the sky. For a second he imagines he can hear John laughing, pounding a glass mug on some bar top, maybe sharing a joke with Lestrade. He should not have come back to Britain yet – despite a Moriarty client going rouge and trying the serial killer path – he should never have come back unless it was to stay._

_“Taxi!” Sherlock shouts, hand in the air._

\---------

"All right," Harry says as she deals out the cards, "everyone ante up. Mike I see you there, put in."

"I was!" Mike fumbles with his chips, dropping two on the floor.

Harry chuckles as John leans down to pick them up for him. Mary chuckles as well, "one too many Mike?"

"Shhh," Holly, Mary's best friend says and shakes her beer bottle, "if you don't have a beer in hand it's not real poker."

"Here here!" Harry crows as she lays the last card down on her stack and drinks some of her lager.

John gives her a glare but she pointedly ignores him. John stares a moment longer then gives up and picks up his cards – two of hearts, seven of clubs, jack of clubs, jack of hearts, and four of spades.

"I'll have four." Dave puts his cards face down in front of Harry.

Harry raises her eyebrows. "Lucky man with the ace?"

"Doctors don't lie," Dave replies with a grin.

John and Mike burst out laughing. Mary snorts and just shakes her head. Dave glares and throws a chip at Mike's head. John catches it just before it hits Mike in the forehead.

John grins. "Thanks."

"Oy!"

John shrugs and adds the chip to his pile. "Shouldn't have thrown it then."

Mary puts up her hand and they high five across the table.

"I may puke," Harry groans and gives Dave his four cards. Dave grumbles but takes the cards and leans back in his chair, cards held close to his chest.

John raises his eyebrows and sighs at Harry. "Ever the fifteen year old."

"I try." Harry smiles then nods at Mike. "So?"

Mike shrugs, "Uh, two?"

"Is that a question?"

Mike slides two cards across the table. Mary raises an eyebrow at him but Mike only looks slightly nauseated. Mary pulls three cards out of her hand and slides them across the table before Harry can ask.

"Eager?" Harry tosses two cards at Mike then slides three over to Mary. Harry turns to Holly and raises her eyebrows.

"Ugh, trash." Holly pulls out two cards and puts them on the table. "Two."

"Two?" Harry asks, "You sure?"

"I'm sure it won't matter, give me two."

"Such optimism, Holly." Mary pulls her cigarette up to her lips and takes a drag. "One would think you might be bluffing."

Holly snorts. "Oh, sure."

"Hmm, Mary seems to have a point there, Holly." John purses his lips. "Working on a straight? Four of a kind? Five of a kind?"

Harry and Holly snort at the same time then stare at each other. Harry smiles slowly until John groans. Harry flashes John a look. He glares back but she only smiles innocently.

John shakes his head. "Unbelievable." John pulls out the two, seven and four and puts them face down on the table. "Three for me."

Harry shakes her head and gulps down some of her beer. "Nah."

"I'll get it myself."

John reaches for the deck but Harry puts her hand over it. "Oy, little brother, no cheating."

"Then give me my cards."

"You guys play the slowest poker ever." Dave sucks down the rest of his beer bottle and bangs it back down on the circular table. "I mean it."

"He must have a good hand." Mary points at Dave. "Trust no bets from this one."

Harry pulls three cards off the top and hands them to John. John slips the cards in his hand – four of diamonds, ten of diamonds, and four of spades. John's lip quirks but he keeps his face as straight as he can. He sees Mary watching him and she smiles slowly when he catches her eye. John mouths 'what?' Mary just shakes her head and shrugs her shoulder. John wrinkles his nose at her and she giggles.

"Are you two done flirting across the table?" Harry asks.

John opens his mouth but Holly jumps in, "They never are."

Harry grins. "Maybe we should try it instead?" She leans over the table slightly. "Give them a taste of their own medicine."

"Oh god," Dave groans.

"Harry..." John says.

"John?"

"Aren't we supposed to bet now?" Mike asks suddenly.

Everyone snaps around and stares at Mike. Mike smiles slowly until Holly snorts and takes a loud sip of her beer.

Dave takes a sip of his beer and throws in a chip. "One."

Mike throws in one chip too. 

Mary, however, throws in two chips. "Raise!" 

Mike groans. John smiles at Mary. She wiggles her eyebrows and takes a sip of her beer. John smiles wider then waves his fanned cards at her. Mary mouths 'ha' and flicks her cards with two fingers.

Harry laughs and stands up. "Another beer anyone?"

"Harry, maybe -"

"Relax, John," Harry says over her shoulder as she crosses around the couch into her kitchen.

John glances at Mary but she just shakes her head. "Come on boys, add a chip or fold."

"Fine." Dave tosses in another chip.

Mike shakes his head. "I've already lost twenty pound." He folds his hand and lays it on the table.

"Call," Holly adds her chips.

Harry comes back in the room, two beers in one hand. She puts the one down in front of John and sits down in her chair with the other.

"All right, come on!" She pops the cap of her beer off. "Bets in!"

John throws in two chips and so does Harry. Harry nods her head at Holly and she lays down her cards, pair of kings. Dave and Harry lay down their cards at the same time - three of a kind for Dave and two pair, twos and nines, for Harry.

Harry takes a big chug of her beer. "Ah ha, winner." She looks at John. "Gonna beat two pair? Full house in that hand, huh?"

John snort. "Just a better two pair." He throws down the jacks and fours.

Harry frowns. "God, really?"

"Ahem." They all turn and Mary waves her hand at the rest of the table. "As much as I love you, John." She puts down her hand on the table. "Flush!"

Harry squawks and John starts laughing. Mary grins then leans over the table and slides all the chips over to her. Holly shakes her head then stands up, turning to the kitchen. Harry jumps out of her chair, following after. John makes a grab for Harry's arm – really, Holly is not gay at all, what is Harry thinking – but he misses and both women disappear around the corner into the kitchen.

John sighs then turns back to the table and nods at Mary. "So, nice hand."

Mary nods. "It's all skill."

"Oh yeah, you made those cards appear in your hand?"

Mary touches her forehead with two fingers. "Mind powers."

"You know that could explain the other night how you -"

"Shhh." She pinches two fingers together in his direction. "I use my mind powers for your benefit."

John raises an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

Mary grins. "Need I elaborate?"

"Is this what happens when the feared John Watson falls in love?" Dave asks.

Mike knocks back his beer. "The worse for all of us."

Mary grins and leans back in her chair, clapping Mike on the back. "You love it."

John smiles. "I do." Mary turns to him and smiles back, small and fond, just for him. "I really do."

Mary blushes, like she never does. "Me too."

\--------

_Sherlock paces across the hotel room, mobile in hand. He lists the pros and cons in his head, two columns, nearly identical, certain items ending up on both sides._

_"Ridiculous," Sherlock mutters, "sentiment."_

_Then Sherlock stops by the desk – erase the lists and act like John, act on feeling – he clicks speed dial and puts the phone to his ear._

_"Hello?"_

_"I sent you a package today, large padded envelop. You will know it by the lack of return address, sent to your home address."_

_"You've never -" Molly clears her throat. "I mean how do you..." She sighs. "What is it?"_

_"Some case work, files, you can give them to Lestrade."_

_"But why are you -"_

_"To help clear my name."_

_Molly gasps. "Are you... are you coming back?"_

_Sherlock fists his free hand and frowns. "Not yet."_

_"But... then why..." Molly sighs and Sherlock hears a door close in the background - at Barts, lab two. "Sherlock, it has been more than two years!"_

_"I am quite aware of that, Molly."_

_"Then come home!"_

_"I want to! All I want to is to see -" Sherlock stops suddenly in shock at his own reaction. Sherlock swallows, looks at the wall, recites the periodical table in his head. He clears his throat. "I am close, Molly, close to finishing."_

_"Sherlock, the whole world of crime does not need you to fix it."_

_"Molly, don't exaggerate -"_

_"No, Sherlock, you are the one spending years hunting down criminals tied to some evil organization with a king at top that shot himself so that you would commit suicide! Who is the one living a fantasy?"_

_"Believe me, Molly, this is no fantasy."_

_"I know that." Molly's voice cracks. "I know how much you are doing and how real it is, but every single criminal in the world is not one you have to catch."_

_"Molly..."_

_"What I am saying is that, your life, the life you had here in London, it... it's not going to be the same."_

_Sherlock breathes out through his nose and grips the edge of the table. "It doesn't matter, Molly. Anything can be changed, anything can be fixed. I must finish so that everyone will be safe."_

_"Sherlock -"_

_"Molly, I will not risk his life – all your lives... I..." Sherlock shakes her head. "The point is justice and protecting the lives of people who matter." Sherlock looks at the bed, his bag, and the one photograph from his wallet lying face up near the edge. "All the matters is..."_

_"Sherlock," Molly voice changes and the tone implies hesitation, fear. "He's... John is, well he..."_

_"He is happy?" Sherlock asks without realizing what he was going to say._

_"Yes, he is."_

_Sherlock looks at the wall across from him, swallows, and tilts his head - happy? John, happy? Is Sherlock happy John is happy? Would he rather John still missed him, still mourned, what does Sherlock want? Sherlock shakes his head hard. Feelings are far more complicated than the paths he has followed for two years._

_Sherlock swallows then clears his throat. "That is... good."_

_"Sherlock, if you come home, maybe..."_

_"Maybe what?"_

_Molly breathes out audibly. "Sherlock, you should come home. Soon."_

_"Why, Molly, what is more important?"_

_"Sherlock!" Molly sighs. "If you don't come home soon you are going to lose him."_

_Sherlock's lips twitch and his stomach shifts in a way he cannot identify. "What do you mean?"_

_"Do you love him?"_

_Molly's question comes out so bluntly Sherlock cannot think of a single thing to say. He cannot see Molly, cannot analyze any facts, has no ammunition to use to fight back. Sherlock blinks and attempts to clear his vision because trying to understand his heart – John, John, John so far away, beside him, inside him, his eyes and his hands and wanting to hold John against his chest – he cannot understand this feeling at all. All he wants is John, life back the way it used to be with John._

_After a minute, Molly sighs again. "I know how you feel, Sherlock." She insists, voice raising a half step, "and John still does miss you but you need to come home."_

_Sherlock clenches his teeth and raps his knuckle on the desk. "I will, when I can. Remember the package."_

_Sherlock clicks the phone off without saying goodbye, before Molly could say anything more, before she could say John's name again._

\--------

John walks in the door of the posh townhouse after checking in at the curb, odd enough to have his name on the list for a private government ‘gala.’ He did not know until tonight Mycroft owned such a large townhouse in London but it's not really a surprise.

"I feel like any second someone is going to realize we don't belong," Mary whispers in his ear.

"With that red dress no one will care," John whispers back, brushing the top of the bateau neckline of her dress.

Mary snorts quietly as they walk in the door. "Well, you in that tux. I better keep an eye on all the closeted parliament pages."

"You think they get an invite?"

Mary laughs as she hands her shawl to an attendant. John kisses her cheek and they bravely step into the government party full of tuxedos and thousand pound dresses. They mingle for about ten minutes, champagne somehow ending up in their hands, until Mycroft touches John's shoulder.

"John."

"Mycroft."

"Hello," Mary smiles, "we've met a few times, I'm -"

"I know who you are Dr. Morstan, do not fear."

Mary's mouth clicks shut and she smiles. "Good to see you again."

Suddenly a pair of woman come up behind Mary and spin her around. "Hello!"

"I -"

The woman on the right squeezes Mary's arm. "Let me guess, new wife? Beautiful dress."

"No, no," the woman on the left says, "newly elected. It is a stunning dress."

"I'm not -"

"Come with us, we'll show you around."

The women hook their arms around Mary's and lead her through the crowd toward a bar John sees in the far corner. John purses his lips as Mary shoots fearful glances over her shoulder.

John turns back to Mycroft. "Should I save her?"

Mycroft shrugs. "I doubt she will be seriously harmed but you may owe her some sort of reparations for the experience."

John swallows. "Right." John pivots to face Mycroft. "So, you throwing a party?"

Mycroft makes one of his nauseated faces. "Yes. Unfortunately despite my all but autonomous position it does occasionally require stoking the fire of prestige and opulence."

"Yeah, well, the food looks like." John waves a hand at the long table by one wall. "And I'm not sure I should even chance the bar."

Mycroft smiles. "Yes, must keep the gears of progress greased."

"With food and drink?"

"Exactly."

John takes a small sip of his champagne. "And why exactly did you invite Mary and I?" 

Mycroft takes a glass of red wine from a passing server. "My schedule is very busy, John. This seemed like a good time for us to catch up."

John blinks slowly. "You invited me to your upscale government party to catch up?"

"Of course." Mycroft tilts his head. "I can also use you as an excuse against various individuals I would wish to avoid speaking to."

"Ah, well, you're welcome."

"How are you, John?"

John breathes out through his nose and smiles. "Good. I'm good. I am."

"Mary?"

"Ha," John taps his glass on Mycroft, "yes, yes, it's Mary." John clears his throat and looks across the room to where Mary laughs with a younger, brown haired woman. "I... she's perfect. I never thought someone could fit so well."

"Better than Sherlock?"

John turns sharply and his mouth falls open slightly. "I..."

"Do you miss him?"

John's mouth clicks closed again. Mycroft gives him the same calm, still look he so often wears. Yet John feels his knows Mycroft well enough now to tell when deeper feelings hide under layers of intelligence and status. John reaches out and grips Mycroft's arm. Mycroft tenses slightly as if people never actually touch him.

"Of course I miss him, Mycroft, I always will. I’m not about to forget him." John lets go of Mycroft's arm. "I just know how to live without him now."

Mycroft nods and his mouth almost forms a smile. "Good. I am pleased to hear that."

"What about you?"

Mycroft's face twitches. "Me?"

"How are you? Do you miss him?"

Mycroft chuckles and turns away to regard the room, "I'm waiting."

John's brow furrows with confusion. "Waiting, for what?"

Mycroft sips his champagne and does not answer John.

\----------

_Sherlock sits at the bar in a pub in Belgium – obviously high drinking time from the amount of people jammed into such a small space. Sherlock sits at the far side, booth behind him close enough that if Sherlock wants to lean back against it on his stool he can. In general Sherlock refrains from drinking – never helpful for the deductive process – but tonight is an exception with no criminals of the Moriarty persuasion left to chase in this town._

_Sherlock raises a hand and the bar tender flashes him a look. Sherlock points down at his empty glass. “Another.”_

_Luckily, as he is in Brussels, everyone speaks English along with whatever local language they speak from their NATO country. Sherlock cannot be bothered to pull out French or German right now and his Dutch was never one of his strong languages. Just about everyone in the bar Sherlock pegs as politically connected – Belgian government, NATO, EU – It is a sea of suits and properly clipped ties. Thus Sherlock in his usual black suit and white shirt fits in, even if the lack of tie shifts him into the newly employed or entry level category to everyone else in the pub. As if Sherlock even cares._

_At the moment Sherlock cares only for the brown notebook open on the bar top before him. Despite the three – no four – drinks, Sherlock reads the words on the top of the page quite clearly: March, Prague, Sebastian. Sherlock thinks of nothing else, counts down the days like some teenager excited for a date. Prague is a date but not in any desire for romance._

_Suddenly a man squeezes in between Sherlock and woman sitting on his right to put a hand on the bar. He shifts to his side toward Sherlock so he can fit better in the small space but keeps gazing at the bar tender, trying to attract his attention by staring. The man looks remarkably like John – short dirty blond hair, cut just above his ears, short but still average height, red buttoned shirt and tie loose at his neck, hard shoulders and calloused hands; Local government, not EU or NATO, more simple law enforcement._

_Then he turns and looks at Sherlock. He pauses and smiles a little. “Hej.”_

_“You remind me of someone,” Sherlock says without preamble._

_The man chuckles, “Oh yes?”_

_“Yes.”_

_He smiles – charming, even Sherlock can tell – and shrugs. “I am Jens.”_

_Sherlock swallows and for a moment he cannot say anything at all – coincidences do not exist. “Sherlock.”_

_Jens raises his eyebrows. “English?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Not one of these,” he points his finger around the pub at the many suited people. Sherlock tilts his head in question. Jens chuckles and touches Sherlock just below his throat. “The men would never be caught without a tie.”_

_The bar tender chooses this moment to finally bring Sherlock a new drink. Sherlock slides the glass toward him then points at Jens. “I believe you need a drink.”_

_Jens smiles and pulls his hand away from Sherlock. He turns to the bar tender and orders some type of beer, local, unimportant. They wait in silence for a minute until the bar tender hands Jens his bottle and Jens hands him some money. Bottle in hand, Jens returns his attention to Sherlock._

_“So, why are you in Brussels?”_

_“Work and you are police officer.”_

_Jens eyebrows shoot up. “Am I obvious?”_

_“Quite.” Sherlock takes a large sip of his gin and tonic. “But my line of work often coincides with the police.”_

_Jens frowns. “Not a criminal are you?”_

_“Only occasionally.”_

_Jens lip quirks with amusement and Sherlock sees John – when the phone rings and Sherlock tells Lestrade the stolen jewels are obviously still with the supposed victim, when typing at his blog and he reaches the climax, when Sherlock asks him ‘how are you?’ Jens shifts closer, leg brushes Sherlock’s knee._

_“So, occasional criminal,” he takes a sip of his beer and purses his lips, “but usually a… what?”_

_Sherlock knocks back more of his drink – eye sight compromised, edges blurry, lights brighter, balance will be affected – then points at Jens with the hand holding his glass. “You are not interested in my work.”_

_Jens takes another sip of his beer. “No?”_

_“No.” Sherlock takes another sip, nearly empty now, Jens watching him intently._

_Jens tips up his beer and takes a long chug. Then he puts the beer on the bar, takes Sherlock’s glass from him and puts it on the bar as well. He grips Sherlock’s jacket and pulls his forward off his chair, Sherlock only swaying slightly on his feet. Jens glances up at Sherlock, now obviously taller, and smiles. He turns and pulls Sherlock by his jacket through the crowd. From the back – his hair, short, straight line across, red shirt collar not quite reaching – Sherlock sees John guiding Sherlock, taking him away from a crime scene or a confrontation or another witness reduced to tears._

_“John…” Sherlock whispers, the name lost among the noise of the pub to anyone but him._

_Jens finds a dark corner and pushes Sherlock against the wall. “No more talking.”_

_Sherlock touches Jens hair – John’s hair, so military, so perfect for him – then Jens presses up against him and kisses Sherlock. He touches Sherlock’s neck, pulls him down closer, touches Sherlock’s chest but it’s not like John._

_Sherlock pulls back and tilts his head at Jens – red lips, paler skin, strange part of the hair, dark brown eyes. He laughs once, “Is this what people do?”_

_Jens scrunches his eyebrows but when Sherlock makes no move to push him away, he pulls Sherlock down again by the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock kisses back this time when their lips meet – skin and heat and tongues – and Jens grinds his crotch up into Sherlock so he gasps into the kiss._

_But everything is wrong. Jens is a few centimeters too tall; his hair feels too coarse; Sherlock clutches Jens shoulder – no scar under the cloth; He tastes like beer and flowers, nothing like John smells; Jens weighs less, more than Sherlock but still too thin to be John. Jens kisses him harder, slips his fingers under the band at the back of Sherlock’s pants trying to reach past tucked in shirt. Sherlock imagines John would never be so forward, so sloppy._

_Sherlock grips both of Jens shoulders and pushes him back, shakes his head. “No.”_

_Jens frowns. “No? I –“_

_Sherlock lets go of Jens – not John, not John at all – and steps away from the wall._

_“Wait,” Jens touches Sherlock’s arm, “I am sorry, have I –“_

_“It’s all wrong,” Sherlock mutters and walks around Jens back into the crush of the pub, the drunk people and the knots of business conversation._

_Sherlock feels the impact on his senses, the sound swirling together and heavy footsteps. He forces his way back to the bar and grabs his brown notebook from right where he left it._

_Sherlock stares at the page, ‘March, Prague, Sebastian,’ and burns the words into his mind. He cannot unravel, cannot give in to sentiment. Sherlock is so close to home, to the real thing, he cannot afford to break down and fall apart now. He will not allow it._

_Sherlock snaps the book closed and slips it into an inside pocket of his jacket. Then he weaves through the crowd, steady as a sober man, and leaves the pub._

\----------

Mary and John sit across from each other in the window of a small restaurant, which hardly deserves the name, close to her work. They meet for lunch sometimes, especially Wednesdays and especially over busy and hellish days. By now they are down to the basket of chips in the middle of the table, coffee for John and one beer for Mary.

“I swear, if I read one more paper on Pride and Prejudice I will renounce Mr. Darcy forever.”

“Renounce?”

Mary shakes her head. “The Regency can have him and enough about the wet shirt scene. That should not be in a university paper!”

John snorts until Mary shoots him a look. He clears his throat. “At least you didn’t do surgery on a ten year old today.”

Mary’s eyes widen. "Oh god, for what?”

“Car accident.”

Mary picks up a chip and dips it in ketchup. “Awful.”

“She’ll be all right though.”

Mary nods and chews. “Good. Silver lining?”

“More like gold to her parents.”

“And now my woes are in perspective.” Mary makes a vague circle in the air with one hand while grabbing another chip with the other.

John picks up a chip and eats it without condiments. He watched Mary for a moment as she shifts through the basket, moving chips around looking for which ever she deems the best one. John chews his lip then clasps his hands together on the table.

John clears his throat significantly. “So…”

Mary’s eyes tick up. She raises an eyebrow.

“What do you think about getting married some time?”

Mary stares at him for a full beat without moving, hand still in the chips basket. “Are you proposing right now?” John laughs. “Because despite how appropriate this situation is as a metaphor for our relationship it would really be a shit proposal.”

“I’m not proposing.”

“Okay.” Mary finally pulls her hand out of the basket and wipes it on a napkin before clasping hers on the table like John’s.

“I was just asking what you thought about it.”

“About marriage in general or about us getting married?”

John tilts his head. “Both.”

She laughs in a throaty way and smiles. “Well… I think it can be complicated?”

John frowns. “Interesting answer.”

“It’s, uh…” She pushes the basket of chips in a distracted manner. “I…” She gazes out the window to her left then turns to John. “I tend to scare away men. Either I’m too smart or too confident, too independent. That hasn’t been a problem with you yet but –“

“No ‘yet;’ It’s not at all.” John shakes his head with surprise. “It won’t be, don’t you know that?”

“You think it won’t be, John, until it is.”

“Mary, I happen to like all those things about you.”

Mary nods and shrugs. “True but we’re dating, marriage is different.”

“Well, that’s why I asked what you thought.” John flattens his hands on the table and looks at the window, one woman running by and nearly tripping over a crack in the pavement. “Are you saying, no you wouldn’t like to get married ever?”

“I didn’t say that.” John jerks his eyes back to her. “Why would you want to marry me?” She asks.

“That’s easy,” John smiles.

She holds up her hand. “Don’t just say, ‘because I love you.’” 

John shakes his head. “Not that, though I think that’s pretty important too, yeah?” Mary chuckles and John reaches across the table to thread their fingers together. “No, because you are the most perfect fit I’ve had in my life. Everything wrong with me you turn around and whatever you might lack…” She makes a small mock offended face. John grins. “Anything you lack I’ve got for you.”

Mary’s lip trembles for just a moment before she bites down on it. She nods but does not say anything.

John rubs the back of her hand clasped in his with his free one. “I love so much about you, quoting Shakespeare in the morning and making tea stronger than anything,” she laughs, “I’d like to add to the list.”

She smiles and squeezes his hand. “Oh well, you can go now if you like.”

John chuckles with her and they sit for a moment just looking at each other until the bell on the door rings when another person enters the establishment. John sits up straight and they let go of each other’s hands.

“So, uh,” John touches his forehead, “something to think about.”

“Right.”

“Good.”

“You know I love it when you make that face,” Mary says suddenly.

John pauses with his hand above the chips basket. “What face?”

She leans forward then touches his cheek. John smiles without thinking and Mary taps her finger against his skin. “That ‘I can’t believe how happy I am’ face.” She drops her hand and sits back in her chair. “I think that might be a sign.”

\---------

_Prague._

_Sherlock walks in the door of the British ambassador party – black tuxedo, white waist coat, white tie, fake invitation – and weaves through the crowd. Sherlock eyes every person in the room, picks out other ambassadors, dates of ambassadors, lower level attaches, affairs and the few oddities who gained invitations in a variety of ways – one appears to be blackmail but Sherlock would have to get a closer look at her to be sure. Sherlock walks past them all toward the main ballroom where a small cluster of circular tables line the walls. The middle is a dance floor with at least two dozen couples twirling and bunches of people talking loudly._

_Sherlock stands just inside the main doorway to the right. He scans the crowd looking for one face. Sherlock’s eyes stop half way through his sweep and his lip twitches. Taking a step forward, Sherlock cuts through the dancers toward the wall across from the door. Two tables to the left he stops behind a man seated with one other couple, his back to the dance floor. Sherlock waits until he turns and looks up._

_Sherlock holds out his hand. “Dance?”_

_Sebastian stares, blinks twice with shock, then bites the edge of his lip. “Right.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and stands._

_Sebastian follows Sherlock out onto the floor, until Sherlock turns suddenly and grabs the knife from Sebastian’s other hand as they press together._

_“Don’t need that,” Sherlock says letting it slip to the floor and shoving it somewhere behind him with his foot._

_Sebastian smirks and puts his hand on Sherlock’s waist. “Never hurts to try.” He turns Sherlock sharply with the music. “Why don’t I lead this dance since last time you tried to lead didn’t end too well for you, did it?”_

_“All the more reason to try, try again,” Sherlock says as he pulls them into a spin by their clasped hands._

_Sebastian chuckles. “Good plan this, ambassador party, can’t have any of my guns on me, can I?”_

_“Or so you’d prefer I think.”_

_“Don’t you?”_

_“I don’t second guess you.”_

_Sebastian nods and abruptly dips Sherlock. When they come up, he yanks Sherlock flush against him, arm around Sherlock’s back and holds Sherlock’s phone in his other hand. “Planning on phoning the cavalry again?”_

_Sherlock tilts his head, hair nearly brushing Sebastian’s forehead. “Perhaps.”_

_“No,” Sebastian backs up a step, “you’re not.” He drops Sherlock’s phone which Sherlock catches at their waists._

_He slips it into his pocket and takes Sebastian’s hand again, pulling them into a gentle twirl across the floor. “No, I believe this time it can only end one way.”_

_“Are you here to kill me, Mr. Holmes?”_

_Sherlock stares at Sebastian as they dance, spinning around and neither stepping on the other’s feet. He does not answer._

_Sebastian smiles. “Interesting. I thought you were the good man?”_

_“Thinking wasn’t your specialty, was it? You were good for your shot.”_

_“I still am.”_

_“But without an employer.”_

_Sebastian skips a step and shifts the lead back to him, turning them around the way they danced before. “A good shot is never unemployed, not really.”_

_“Going to start off on your own, are you? Seems unlikely, not after how loyal you were to the whole operation, every hit Moriarty asked, every crime he made you complicit in. All your clients were his clients and if all his clients are slowly and surely gone. Where does that leave you?”_

_Sebastian frowns just slightly and leans in as though they were lovers. “Perhaps that leaves me a bit angry.”_

_“Oh, it does.”_

_Sebastian turns them sharply, tugging Sherlock tight against him and quick as a shot slides a knife against Sherlock’s throat. The couples dance around them, spin to the Spanish guitar, and Sebastian holds Sherlock so close none can see the knife between them._

_“Maybe I’ll relieve that anger right now.” He presses the knife harder against Sherlock’s throat but he does not slice. “Maybe it is time this was over.”_

_“I agree.”_

_Sherlock hooks his foot around Sebastian’s ankle and in five seconds total – shoves his weight forward into Sebastian, Sebastian blinks in surprise, balance falters, grabs Sebastian’s knife hand and turns what would be a fall into a speedy dip. When he pulls Sebastian back up after one second the second knife lands on a passing waiter’s tray._

_“How many knives to you have hidden in that coat?” Sherlock purses his lips. “And I thought you were all for guns.”_

_Sebastian frowns. “Sometimes you have to make due.”_

_“Shame.”_

_Sebastian pushes Sherlock to arm’s length then yanks him back in as in some sort of whip snapping parody of charm. “Let’s talk about him then.”_

_“What?”_

_“You’ve been chasing me, doing all of this, because of him.” He slides his hand to Sherlock’s side and digs in his nails. “Why?”_

_Sherlock frowns. “Why did you?”_

_“Why did I what?”_

_“Keep it all going after he died?”_

_“After you killed him, you mean.”_

_Sherlock almost bares his teeth. “I did not kill him; he shot himself.”_

_Sebastian turns them sharply. “Really?”_

_“Really.”_

_“Hmm.” Sebastian dances backward like an odd waltz. “Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes, but tell me this then, why did you like him?”_

_“Like him?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“I didn’t.”_

_Sebastian snorts. “Yes, you did.”_

_“Like is a strong word.” Sherlock purses his lips. “He was interesting.”_

_Sebastian smiles slowly. “There.”_

_The music slows to a stop with Sherlock and Sebastian in the middle of the dance floor. As the couples stop twirling and start up conversation instead, Sherlock lets go of Sebastian and folds his hands behind his back._

_“I’ll give you one chance now.”_

_Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “You mean I haven’t had enough chances already?”_

_Sherlock frowns and leans forward, voice low. “Give up. Turn yourself in.”_

_Sebastian chuckles. “Oh, is that it?”_

_Sherlock slides his hands back around slowly, cocking out his arm just enough so the small gun concealed up his sleeve slips down into his palm. He pulls his hand up but Sebastian grabs his wrist so suddenly Sherlock nearly cries out._

_“You may be smart, Mr. Holmes, but I know guns better than just about anyone.” He peers down at the gun between them. “NAA .22LR Mini Revolver.” He makes a ‘tch’ noise. “And did you really think that would be enough?”_

_“One chance,” Sherlock growls, “I won’t give you another.”_

_“I don’t need your chances.”_

_Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Care to wager on which is faster, your disarming or my trigger finger?”_

_Sebastian takes the third option and punches Sherlock in the gut so hard he falls to his knees, the gun clattering to the floor. A few people turn at seeing him fall but Sebastian shushes them away with, ‘too much to drink.’ He crouches down in front of Sherlock doubled over and gasping. Sherlock notices him glance around for the gun but Sherlock knows it slid away and was subsequently kicked by a bystander so neither of them can reach it._

_Sebastian shakes his head. “Why are you making this difficult? Can’t you give in?”_

_“I don’t give in.”_

_Sebastian growls in frustration. “I should kill you right now.”_

_Sherlock breathes in deeply and sits up with a smile. “Well at least then you would be arrested as I offered, killing someone at an embassy is hard to get out of with the courts.”_

_“I think I’ve decided I hate you.”_

_“You’ll have many friends in that.”_

_Suddenly Sebastian grabs Sherlock’s head and smashes him face first into the floor. Sherlock hears a woman scream in surprise, a man shouting, Sebastian rising to his feet…_

_Sherlock thinks how troublesome this 'force before thought' method is with Sebastian. Why can’t he ask to be thrown off a building or shoot himself in the head like his dear departed employer? Then Sherlock falls into a cushion of black unconsciousness._

\-------

John opens his eyes slowly as light filters in the window through white curtains. He blinks twice and looks at the clock to his left – 9:47. John shakes his head, no need to get up yet on a Saturday. He rolls his head the other way to see Mary still asleep, head on the pillow and some blond hair draped over one eye. John reaches out and carefully slides it away behind her ear. Mary’s face twitches slightly in sleep but no more than that. John lets his arm fall back and he rolls on to his side toward Mary. He quite enjoys this sight in the mornings; Mary wakes up first only one time out of a hundred.

John knows he can fall into things fast – his first love Becky Brix, becoming a doctor, the army, Sherlock. When he falls fast like this, like with Mary, it is because it’s something that will last. John cannot stop thinking about how perfect Mary is, how every day is just what he wants, just how he wants to live. 

Mary when she laughs – “Look at me, look at me, John Watson,” laugh like a bell or gong or a trumpet, loud and full and a melody you want to harmonize with and when she giggles like she’s twenty years old and does not care. “This game of strip poker has gone on far too long.”

John smiles and laughs. “Because you know you’re going to lose your bra next?”

“Ha!” She throws down four of a kind much to John-only-in-his-pants’ dismay. “And now you are naked!” And she laughs, high and long and hard as she pounces on him.

Mary in the kitchen – “Fuck!”

“What?”

“I can do it!”

John pokes his head in. “Did you burn yourself?”

“I can do it!” She slams the door of the oven closed. “This recipe will not defeat me!”

“You burnt yourself.”

Mary sucks on her thumb. “Yeah.”

He loves her hair – short and blond and a straight canopy around her face. He loves her eyes – green then hazel then brown then green again, all with that dark brown ring around the outside to draw you in. He loves the way she rises up onto her toes for a kiss when she really doesn’t need to.

Mary’s smile – “Hi.” All eyes and cheeks and teeth and you cannot look away because that smile says ‘I love you,’ ‘I want you,’ ‘You are the only thing I see right now.’

“Hi.”

And she smiles when he holds her and smiles when he kisses her and smiles when he can’t even see her but can hear it through the phone; her teeth click and the gentle press of her lips together before they spread apart into the smile that turns her face into light, into the definition of happiness.

Mary’s mismatched dress sense – “Blue and black go together right?”

John frowns. “With brown shoes?”

“What?”

“Trying to keep that scattered professor look intact, are you?”

She looks down at her shoes. “It’s raining out and I like these boots.”

“Then wear your gray suit.”

“I…” She opens the closet and sticks her head in. “Oh, yeah, that works. Pink socks, you think?”

“Now you’re just teasing.”

He loves how she sneaks cigarettes when really stressed but only about her sisters or death or if Shakespeare is performed subpar. He loves the way she can knock back a beer but drinking wine is such a chore. He loves the way she’ll hold his hand in her sleep, more than once waking up with fingers entwined and no other parts touching. He loves the way she scratches her nails through his hair when they have sex, sharp but perfect and somehow still a delicious surprise. He loves her walking beside him, sitting beside him, cheering in the pub at the football match and jumping into his arms with screams of sports fueled joy.

“Hi.” Mary opens her eyes and slips her hand under her pillow. “What time is it?”

“Near ten.”

“Hmm.” She closes her eyes and pushes her hands against the head board, stretching down and curving her stomach into the mattress. The covers slip off her naked back down toward her waist. Mary goes slack again and opens her eyes. “Been up long?”

“Not really.” John rubs her ankle with his toes. “Just watching you sleep.”

“Hmm, creepy.”

“Yeah.”

She giggles quietly then scoots across the bed and nestles her face into his neck, one leg sliding between his. John puts his arm around the small of her back and kisses her hair.

“Good dreams?”

“Zombie apocalypse but I only had a machete.”

John snorts. “I bet you killed them all.”

“I did. Harry was there with a machine gun too and we had to save you from this building made up only of stairs.”

“I love your brain.”

Mary kisses his neck. “That may be the best thing you’ve ever said to me.”

John wants to spend the rest of his life with her, every day and night, every up and down, every fight and every joy, stupid things and exciting things. He wants to see how far this joy can go because nothing since Sherlock Holmes has felt so right in his life – so perfect – as Mary Morstan.

\---------

_Sherlock waits in line, only one person ahead of him, at the FedEx store nearest the airport in Zurich. His cab waits outside, meter running, but the cost hardly matters. The package Sherlock holds is the last pieces of information, last stacks of proof, to set the records straight on James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes._

_The woman in front of Sherlock takes her receipt and moves out of his way. Sherlock places the package on the counter and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. “England.”_

_The woman nods and rings it up – the box, one of the prepay sizes found in every store around the globe. Sherlock gives her exact change before she can even tell him the cost then swoops away without waiting for a ‘thank you’ or receipt. Sherlock pushes the door open, walks three steps across the sidewalk then opens the door of his cab and climbs in._

_“To the hotel,” Sherlock says and his driver only nods, foot back on the gas._

_Sherlock sits perfectly still, hand against his lips. He has one thing left to do, one person left in this long line of plots and crimes. He can see the horizon now and the one thing he wants waiting there. Sherlock’s eyes shift to the empty seat beside him. He remembers John – questioning his deductions, praising his intelligence, chastising his tact. Sherlock smiles and remembers a hundred cab rides, a thousand smiles, what felt like a life time of moments. Could they really only have known each other two years? A year and a half?_

_Sherlock knows things will be different when he finally returns; time passes, people change, and adjust. All he wants is to take that time and turn it round again, bring everything back to almost three years ago when it was just him and John, together. He wants John running beside, John with his gun in hand, John crouching over a corpse when Sherlock already knows the cause of death, John snapping at him, John making tea in the kitchen, John blogging away early in the morning. Sherlock wants his John back, he wants their life back._

_Sherlock wants John awake before seven making eggs, “Sherlock, its Tuesday. You are eating.”_

_John blogging their recent case adding flowery words and a twinge of adventure even if he does leave out some of the most interesting details about their murder victim. “People don’t care about the effects of his hair dye on his scalp, Sherlock.”_

_He wants John falling asleep on the couch, half curled up like some lazy cat with his laptop nearly falling on the floor, his toes just touching Sherlock leg as he sits on the other end. Sherlock wants to watch John sleep for an hour without anyone else in the world knowing or caring or talking, without John even knowing how Sherlock catalogs the exact moment John begins to dream._

_John moaning about money, “you can’t spend the entire case’s profits on a spectrometer. You’ll use it what, twice? Plus we have this thing called rent.”_

_Sherlock just wants their everyday life back – cases and clients and crimes and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and the chemistry kitchen and taxis and money between them and even Mycroft and double homicides and missing jewels and painting thieves and John pulling rank and buying milk and experiments in pie making and Cluedo and that stupid blog and John and John. Sherlock only wants their life again, just as it perfectly was. Sherlock is not asking John to love him, no, just stay with him forever._

_The taxi finally stops outside a modest hotel, ten floors and a good coat of paint. Sherlock pays and steps out of the car. Inside he walks up to the desk and pulls a small, thin wallet out of an inner pocket inside a zipped inner pocket of his coat._

_“One room, uncertain length of stay.” Sherlock slides the ID reading ‘Sherlock Holmes’ across the counter._

_This time he will not be chasing, not researching, not investigating. This time all Sherlock plans to do it wait._

_“Third time's the charm,” Sherlock says._

_The man behind the counter raises his eyebrows. “Sir?”_

_Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing.”_

_This time Sebastian Moran will come to him and it will be the end of the chase, trap slammed shut, and Sherlock will finish this._

\---------

John sits at the end of the table in the slightly posh restaurant, Mary to his right and four of her friends across and the further down the table. Luckily the seat across from John is vacant so when the lunch topics turn to something like Gucci he stares out the window and zones through. Mary does have some excellent friends – professors, school friends, Tina and Ted from the pub that are basically their clones and best drinking companions – but these friends are Mary’s in town from Manchester. She knows a few of them from back in primary school and they run the gamut of personality and conversation. One John would describe as ‘vapid’ quite readily. But, John is a good boyfriend this time.

“I’m sorry but I only wear boots now.”

“God, Cheri, really?”

She snorts and flips her long hair. “Boots are made for walking.”

Sandy who spoke earlier rolls her eyes. “You just want an excuse to wear shorter skirts. ‘Oh my legs are covered so I can show more thigh.’”

Mary snorts but catches it quickly. 

Cheri glares at them all then shakes her head. “If you’ve got it.”

“Put boots on it?” Alex replies.

John smiles but keeps the laugh at bay. He rather likes Alex the best out of the group.

“Put skirts on it,” Mary adds with a wink at Cheri. Cheri only sips her wine and takes a dramatic bite of her Caesar salad.

John smiles again and squeezes Mary’s hand under the table. She flashes him some eyebrows and grins, taking a big swig of her white wine. 

“How about we talk about something other than Cheri’s dress sense?” Amanda says from the far corner of the table diagonally from John.

“Here here,” John mutters.

“Oh good, wouldn’t want you too interested,” Mary whispers back.

John bites his sandwich and shrugs. “I was going to jump on that when you weren’t looking but I’m not partial to boots.”

“Because then she’d be taller than you?” Mary flutters her eyelashes.

John kisses her on the cheek so she blushes.

“You two done?”

John and Mary turn to see the rest of the table giving them a combination of pleased and annoyed looks – Cheri winning with the multi look of envious, perturbed confusion. Mary sighs at the same time John clears his throat awkwardly making them both laugh.

“I may puke,” Alex says with a smile.

Mary makes a ‘tch’ noise combined with a wink. Then she sits up straight in her seat and folds her hands on the table. “You said something about new topic?”

John chuckles quietly as Alex snorts and Amanda starts into a conversation about a mutual acquaintance in Manchester. After a minute of talking, speculations about if Greg really is straight because David could not just be his roommate, and then Mary slips her hand back under the table to thread it together with John’s. John smiles – Mary’s hand warm and solid – then gazes toward the window across from him.

He wonders what Sherlock would have thought of Mary.

“Another, John?” That frown of distain or a I-know-everything-of-importance scoff. “When are you going to stop this cycle?”

“This time I am, Sherlock.”

Sherlock and Mary would have had some excellent arguments, probably on things like university procedure or the quality of academic writings. Sherlock would have bemoaned fiction writing and Mary would have cited serial killers who were inspired by literature. John smiles at the thought of the two of them shouting in the living room, Sherlock perched on his chair and Mary pacing, fisting hands in her hair. Mary would end up forcing Sherlock to attend some production of a Wilde play and Sherlock would have pretended very hard not to like it.

John imagines – no, he knows – if Sherlock had given Mary a chance he would have liked her in the end.

“You really believe this one will stay?” Sherlock would say. “You won’t drop her like, which one was that?”

“She’s going to stay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock would pout, complain, and then Mary and Sherlock would sit on the couch together playing Cluedo, arguing about nonfiction books they found in common, drinking tea just watching John blog because Sherlock, just like Mary, sometimes just needs to sit. The two of them have more in common than either would have admitted. 

John sighs quietly as he looks out the window, the figure of Sherlock absent from the chair. Sometimes thinking about ‘if only’ can be a good thing and remembering Sherlock no longer makes John fill with sorrow.

“Staring off into space?” Mary whispers in his ear.

John chuckles. “Without a doubt.”

“You are missing an excellent conversation about how many blokes must be gay because they aren’t interested in Cheri.”

Amanda scoffs loudly down the table and Sandy begins to squeal with laughter, clinking her wine glass with Alex’s. Cheri snorts and spills some of her salad on the floor.

John purses his lips and looks out of the corner of his eye at Mary. “Does that make me gay?”

Mary nods and squeezes his hand. “Absolutely.”

“Well, nowhere near the first accusation of that.”

Mary giggles once then kisses John’s temple just as his hairline. “You may be the very best man in the world, John Watson.”

John turns and looks at her, hears Sherlock say ‘well… perhaps she is acceptable,’ and he smiles wide. “Only because I have the best woman in the world.”

Mary grins and kisses his lips. “Damn right.”

\---------

_Sherlock catches the red light of the rifle sight reflected in the surface of his coffee, held at just the lucky angle, for one millisecond as it moves to focus on his chest. If not for that he would have been dead._

_Sherlock sees the red, sees it move upward, and he jolts to the right out of his chair. The shot makes almost no sound until the woman sitting in the chair behind him spasms and falls to the ground, her girlfriend screaming in alarm. Sherlock knocks his table over, solid cover toward where the shot came from, and puts his back against it. The table is metal but that is no guarantee – distance rifle, caliber of bullet… But Sherlock is having trouble thinking straight because every person in the restaurant patio and the surrounding street begins screaming, running, knocking into chairs. Glasses hit the ground and newspapers fly into the air like metaphoric leaves._

_“Sebastian,” Sherlock smiles despite his disadvantageous position in the fight. It has finally come, the last time, third time the charm._

_He hears two more shots, one hits his table and one hits the ground two centimeters away from his hand. The bullet that hit the table, up and to his left, punches right through into the wall in front of him._

_“Ah.” Sherlock frowns. “Moving then.”_

_Sherlock glances at the two bullet holes, compensates for horizontal movement and calculates the angle of the shots. Sherlock looks left then right, chooses right as the closer option and then kicks the chair to his left over with an echoing clatter in the now empty Zurich street. A shot hits the chair at the same time Sherlock grabs a leg of the table and shoves it to the right, moving himself with it. Another bullet punctures the metal where his head would have been a second earlier then Sherlock reaches the edge of the building and leaps out into the narrow alley._

_Sherlock puts his back to the building wall and grins toward the street. “Lost your line of sight there, Sebastian.”_

_Sherlock runs down the alley, cuts to the left into another alley and then left again so he ends up on the other side of the street from where he most recently crawled for his life. Sherlock glances up at the rooftop, glances back to his ruined restaurant chair then runs to the correct building. Twelve flights up, Sherlock passes through the restricted access sign and comes out onto the roof._

_“Sebastian!”_

_At the end of the roof, rifle in place on its stand, Sebastian whirls around. Sherlock pulls the gun from his jacket just as Sebastian reaches for the rifle. Sherlock shoots and the rifle flies off the edge of the roof._

_Sebastian stands with his hands hanging in the air for a moment then drops them. “This it then?”_

_“You did come when I called.”_

_“Is that what that was? Hotel room under ‘Sherlock Holmes.’”_

_“I thought it was an obvious enough invitation.”_

_Sebastian nods. “I am getting a bit tired of this back and forth.”_

_“Stop running then.”_

_Sebastian smiles without humor. “Cheeky, are you?”_

_Sherlock shakes his head. “We both know someone else who was much more for the cheek and he died nearly three years ago now.”_

_“It’s about time you joined him,” Sebastian reaches toward the inside of his coat but Sherlock takes a large step forward and cocks his gun again._

_“I think not.”_

_Sherlock waves his gun and Sebastian pulls his gun out slowly, throwing it aside so it actually bounces down a set of steps to the lower roof._

_Sebastian then puts up his hands. “Don’t want a fair fight?”_

_“I have no illusions about who is the better shot.”_

_Sebastian nods and starts walking forward slowly. "So, going to try and bring me in this time or are you thinking of going for the straight kill shot?" Sebastian makes a gun with his forefinger and thumb. "Fancy a trip to the other side of the law?"_

_Sherlock tilts his head. "This has to end sometime, Mr. Moran." Sherlock takes one step forward. "But I think the jail option is not going to come to pass."_

_"Then why don't you -" Sebastian cuts himself off and lunges for the gun in Sherlock's hand._

_Sherlock shoots but misses as Sebastian grabs the gun. Sherlock pulls it backward, trying to keep the control but Sebastian still has the strength of the soldier and moves with him. They grapple back and forth for a moment, face to face, hands clasped around the weapon. Then Sherlock twists and the gun flies out of both their hands, clattering away across the roof._

_"You -" Sebastian plants his foot and punches Sherlock square in the chest._

_The air leaves Sherlock lungs for six seconds and he staggers but does not fall. The air comes back just as Sebastian lunges into Sherlock's personal space, punching him in the jaw twice. Sherlock falls to one knee, eyes blurring but he calculates, turns and smashes his fist into Sebastian's knee. Sebastian yelps with pain and jumps away from Sherlock. Sherlock lays his hand on the ground, tries to recuperate but the moment he pulls up his head Sebastian is on him._

_"Enough, you -" Sherlock starts as Sebastian knocks Sherlock back onto the ground._

_Sebastian growls with anger and smashes Sherlock's head down on the cement. Sherlock makes a choking noise in his throat, grabs at Sebastian's hand – he cannot lose now. Sherlock twists Sebastian's wrist hard so he hears something crack. Sebastian shouts and tries to pull away, less of his body weight pinning Sherlock. Sherlock heaves to the right so Sebastian falls off him. Sherlock whirls around and kicks Sebastian in the stomach. He pulls himself onto his knees, tries to stand but his head keeps spinning._

_"Give up," Sherlock gasps._

_"You son of a..."_

_Sebastian lunges for Sherlock again, grabbing him by his scarf. Sherlock curses his haste and lack of foresight there, not the first time. Sebastian yanks Sherlock forward and head butts him. Sherlock feels blood at his nose but Sebastian does not let go. Sherlock punches Sebastian in the face, jams a knee into his gut to make him let go. Sebastian groans but holds on, the scarf tightening more around Sherlock's throat._

_"Stop..." Sherlock gasps._

_"Die and I will!" Sebastian snaps._

_Sherlock feels his head getting lighter but he shifts his waist, pulls his leg up and kicks Sebastian in the groin. Sebastian falls, hand off the scarf, groaning as Sherlock gasps sharply, gulping in air and coughing,_

_They stare at each for a moment, gasping then everything becomes movement – Sebastian grabs Sherlock's head, Sherlock punches Sebastian's chest, clawing and punching and Sherlock spits blood. They roll over the roof hitting and kneeing and every breath starts to hurt. Sherlock will not give up, will not give into the rise of pain._

_Suddenly Sebastian grabs at his ankle and Sherlock feels the knife slice his arm before he even sees it. Sherlock shouts, shoves himself back away from the glint of metal._

_"Didn't bring that out at the start?" Sherlock gasps._

_Sebastian only laughs and lunges forward for Sherlock's chest. Sherlock tries to roll but Sebastian has Sherlock's legs pinned. Sherlock sees the knife, two seconds, focuses, one second, and he twists enough that the knife stabs under his rips, just below the target, missing his lung. Sherlock screams and grasps Sebastian's hand around the knife._

_"Missed the heart," Sherlock growls, though the pain turns his vision white ._

_"Try, try again," Sebastian growls right back and tries to pull the knife out but Sherlock holds his hand hard, holds the knife in his chest. "Just let me kill you!" Sebastian twists the knife._

_Sherlock groans sharply in pain, "No," but then suddenly lets go of Sebastian's hand so he flies back, off balance with the force of his pull._

_Sherlock shoves himself backward and kicks Sebastian again, managing to hit the hand holding the knife and it flies behind Sebastian. Sherlock falls back, his chest burning then he sees it - the gun, arms length, the gun where he can reach it, the gun. Sherlock twists back through the pain, grabs the gun as he hears Sebastian slice his knife across the concrete._

_Sherlock sits up at the same time as Sebastian, face to face, and the gun pressed into Sebastian’s stomach – Sherlock fires. Sebastian blinks slowly with shock and his hand tightens on Sherlock’s arm, drops the knife. Sherlock’s lip quirks up – all the pain so far away in the background – and he fires twice more into Sebastian’s stomach. Sebastian’s mouth falls open very slowly, eyes locked in place on Sherlock’s, then his hand goes slack and he falls to the ground, completely still._

_Sherlock stares, drops the gun with a clatter, then collapses onto his back. Sherlock stares up, seeing nothing, hardly feeling the wounds, and begins to laugh and laugh and laugh._

\---------

John hangs up his doctor’s coat in his locker. He has another at home but always keeps at least two at work as well – one clean one in case of accidental body fluids. He grabs his coat and his keys, twists the combination on his locker and walks back into the hall.

“Out for the night?” Janice calls from behind the nurse’s desk.

John pivots around and waves at her, “yeah, no night shift for me.”

“And now my shift is ruined.”

John grins, walking backward. “Don’t let Mary hear you say that.”

She snorts. “She’d only encourage me to pinch your arse when you least expect it.”

John laughs and turns back around. He hits the front doors and pushes his way through. John blows air out of his mouth in a slow line then swallows. He has one chore to do, one very important chore before be heads back to Baker Street. John grabs a cab and ten minutes later he hops out and into the store he has been peering at for weeks.

“Hello,” the woman behind the desk beams at him, all lips and eyes, “can I help you?”

John smiles back and lays a hand on the glass between them. “Yes, I need a ring.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What kind specifically?”

John breathes slowly but the smile stays, completely certain. “An engagement ring.”

\---------

_Sherlock spends a month in the hospital, thirty-four days to be exact – the knife wound more severe than realized. He tries as hard as he can to stay civil, leave the nurses alone, do not shout at his doctor – John would have helped with that – but he only lasts a week. Every single false smile and turn of his sheets and small paper cup with more pills causes him to growl and snap and complain – he almost tears his stitches. He just wants to leave this infernal place and return to England, to London, to home. After a week and a half he becomes ‘the patient in room 310’ always said with a tone of fear and annoyance. Sherlock calls them the idiotic medical team of hell._

_He waits and heals and waits more, nothing he can do to speed up the time it takes for his body to recover from the beating and the stabbing it took. His mind races and the track keeps looping around London, round one then two then three then five hundred. The path of Moriarty is finally over and now all Sherlock needs are the words in his mind ‘I can go home now, John.’_

_“Mr. Holmes?”_

_Sherlock glares as his doctor comes in the room. “If you have more medication for me I should inform you I didn’t take the last dose so I won’t take this one.”_

_“No.” She frowns and looks far more pleased than she probably should. “That is not it. You are to be released.”_

_Sherlock’s lip quirks. “How soon?”_

_“Today.”_

_Sherlock’s lips pull up into a smile. “I believe now would be even better.”_

\---------

John and Mary ride in a capsule of the London Eye. Though normally each one fits twenty-five people and it is just eight at night, no one else shares their capsule. They stand by the glass, Mary with one hand pressed against it.

“I’ve only been up here once, you know.” She chuckles. “It’s always, ‘oh I’ll go sometime.’”

“Guess this is sometime.”

Mary bumps John with her shoulder. “Aren’t you smart?” She glances back behind them once then looks at John. “And we get the cab to ourselves, did you threaten someone with your mean army training?”

John chuckles and swallows awkwardly. “More like paid extra and begged.”

Mary’s smile sticks suddenly and her teeth click. “What?” 

The wheel keeps turning slowly, their cab almost at the top. John and Mary stare at each other, John slipping one hand into Mary’s. Her other hand on the glass falls down as she stares at him.

“John, what…”

“I, uh…” John clears his throat. “Well, wanted to ask you something.”

“You…” she makes a throaty sort of laugh, “wanted to ask me…”

John squeezes her hand and bends down on to one knee.

“Oh my god…” Mary gasps sharply.

John pulls a small black box out of his pocket with his free hand. He manages to flip it open one handed since Mary’s hand has locked like a vice around his other. John smiles and holds up the box – small silver ring with one cushion cut diamond.

“Shit…” Mary mutters and her lip trembles once.

“So, Mary.” John smiles and his pulse keeps rising but his hands stay still. 

“You corny bastard,” Mary gasps again quietly.

John laughs and squeezes her hand. “Dr. Mary Morstan, will you marry me?”

“Oh yes, definitely.” 

She yanks his hand in hers so he bounces up to his feet, hand with the ring squished between them. She lets go of his hand and wraps her arms around him and rises up on her toes. John gets there first and kisses her, pulls his arm around her, ring still in hand, and buries his other hand in her hair. She kisses him harder and mutters, “yes, John, yes,” against his lips, “I love you, yes.”

“I love you,” he whispers back into the kiss, London laid out below them.

\----------

_Sherlock exits through double doors of the Heathrow Airport, one bag over his shoulder. He wears his long gray coat, collar turned up though the weather is hardly cold. He waits in the cab line, fingers twitching around the strap of his bag. His other hand grips his phone in his pocket but not dialing anything. Sherlock watches the clouds, the familiar sky, and breathes the sweet London air._

_When Sherlock climbs into the cab he puts his bag on the seat beside him and holds on to the handle of the door to steady his heart._

_“Where to?” the cabbie asks._

_Sherlock breathes sharply through his nose, a face in his mind as bright as a beacon. Sherlock smiles despite his erratic pulse. “221B Baker Street.”_


End file.
